TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 


BOOKS  BY  SAX  ROHMER 


BAT  WING 

FIRE-TONGUE 

Stories  of  Chinatown 
TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 
THE  INSIDIOUS  DR.  FU-MANCHU 
THE  RETURN  OF  FU-MANCHU 
THE  HAND  OF  FU-MANCHU 
THE  YELLOW  CLAW 
THE  GOLDEN  SCORPION 
DOPE 

Oriental  Mystery  Stories 
TALES  OF  SECRET  EGYPT 
THE  GREEN  EYES  OF  BAST 
THE  QUEST  OF  THE  SACRED  SLIPPER 

Magic 
THE  ROMANCE  OF  SORCERY 


TALES  OF 
CHINATOWN 

BY 

SAX  ROHMER  .f**i 


GARDEN    CITY  NEW   YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE    &  COMPANY 
1922 


Tit 


COPYRIGHT,   1922,  BY 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED,    INCLUDING    THAT    OF    TRANSLATION 
INTO    FOREIGN    LANGUAGES,    INCLUDING    THE    SCANDINAVIAN 

Copyright,    1916,    by   Consolidated    Magazines    Corporation    (The 

Blue   Book  Magazine).     All  rights   reserved. 
Copyright,    1917,    by    Consolidated    Magazines    Corporation    (The 

Red    Book    Magazine).     All    rights    reserved. 
Copyright,   1920,  by  P.  F.  Collier  &  Son  Company  in  the  United 

States,   Great  Britain,   and  Canada 

Copyright,    1921,    1922.   by   Street   &   Smith  Corporation 
Copyright,   1922,  by  The  Frank  A.  Munsey  Company 

PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 

AT 
THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS,  GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


First  Edition 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HUANG  CHOW    . i 

KERRY'S  KID 65 

THE  PIGTAIL  OF  Hi  WING  Ho 123 

THE  HOUSE  OF  GOLDEN  Joss       157 

THE  MAN  WITH  THE  SHAVEN  SKULL 191 

THE  WHITE  HAT    . 223 

TCHERIAPIN 259 

THE  DANCE  OF  THE  VEILS 287 

THE  HAND  OF  THE  MANDARIN  QUONG 319 

THE  KEY  OF  THE  TEMPLE  OF  HEAVEN 349 


M255676 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF 
HUANG  CHOW 


TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HUANG  CHOW 

I 
"DIAMOND  FRED" 

IN  THE  saloon  bar  of  a  public-house,  situated  only 
a  few  hundred  yards  from  the  official  frontier  of 
Chinatown,  two  men  sat  at  a  small  table  in  a 
corner,  engaged  in  earnest  conversation.  They  af- 
forded a  sharp  contrast.  One  was  a  thick-set  and 
rather  ruffianly  looking  fellow,  not  too  cleanly  in 
either  person  or  clothing,  and,  amongst  other  evidences 
that  at  one  time  he  had  known  the  prize  ring,  possess- 
ing a  badly  broken  nose.  His  companion  was  dressed 
with  that  spruceness  which  belongs  to  the  successful 
East  End  Jew;  he  was  cleanly  shaven,  of  slight  build, 
and  alert  in  manner  and  address. 

Having  ordered  and  paid  for  two  whiskies  and 
sodas,  the  Jew,  raising  his  glass,  nodded  to  his  com- 
panion and  took  a  drink.  The  glitter  of  a  magnificent 
diamond  which  he  wore  seemed  to  attract  the  other's 
attention  almost  hypnotically. 

"Cheerio,  Freddy!"  said  the  thick-set  man.  "Any 
news?" 


2  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"Nothing  much,"  returned  the  one  addressed  as 
Freddy,  setting  his  glass  apon  the  table  and  selecting 
a  cigarette  from  a  packet  which  he  carried  in  his 
pocket. 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  growled  the  other,  watching  him 
suspiciously.  "You've  been  lying  low  for  a  long  time, 
and  it's  not  like  you  to  slack  off  except  when  there's 
something  big  in  sight." 

"Hm!"  said  his  companion,  lighting  his  cigarette. 
"What  do  you  mean  exactly?" 

Jim  Poland — for  such  was  the  big  man's  name — 
growled  and  spat  reflectively  into  a  spittoon. 

"I've  had  my  eye  on  you,  Freddy,"  he  replied; 
"I've  had  my  eye  on  you !" 

"Oh,  have  you?"  murmured  the  other.  "But  tell 
me  what  you  mean!" 

Beneath  his  suave  manner  lay  a  threat,  and,  indeed, 
Freddy  Cohen,  known  to  his  associates  as  "Diamond 
Fred,"  was  in  many  ways  a  formidable  personality. 
He  had  brought  to  his  chosen  profession  of  crook  a 
first-rate  American  training,  together  with  all  that 
mental  agility  and  cleverness  which  belong  to  his  race, 
and  was  at  once  an  object  of  envy  and  admiration 
amongst  the  fraternity  which  keeps  Scotland  Yard 
busy. 

Jim  Poland,  physically  a  more  dangerous  character, 
was  not  in  the  same  class  with  him;  but  he  was  not 
without  brains  of  a  sort,  and  Cohen,  although  smiling 
agreeably,  waited  with  some  anxiety  for  his  reply. 

"I  mean,"  growled  Poland,  "that  you're  not  wasting 
your  time  with  Laid  Huang  for  nothing." 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HUANG  CHOW   3 

"Perhaps  not,"  returned  Cohen  lightly.  "She's  a 
pretty  girl;  but  what  business  is  it  of  yours?" 

"None  at  all.  I  ain't  interested  in  'er  good  looks; 
neither  are  you." 

Cohen  shrugged  and  raised  his  glass  again. 

"Come  on,"  growled  Poland,  leaning  across  the 
table.  "I  know,  and  I'm  in  on  it.  D'ye  hear  me? 
I'm  in  on  it.  These  are  hard  times,  and  we've  got  to 
stick  together." 

"Oh,"  said  Cohen,  "that's  the  game,  is  it?" 

"That's  the  game  right  enough.  You  won't  go 
wrong  if  you  bring  me  in,  even  at  fifty-fifty,  because 
maybe  I  know  things  about  old  Huang  that  you  don't 
know." 

The  Jew's  expression  changed  subtly,  and  beneath 
his  drooping  lids  he  glanced  aside  at  the  speaker. 
Then: 

"It's  no  promise,"  he  said,  "but  what  do  you  know?" 

Poland  bent  farther  over  the  table. 

"Chinatown's  being  watched  again.  I  heard  this 
morning  that  Red  Kerry  was  down  here." 

Cohen  laughed. 

"Red  Kerry  1"  he  echoed.  "Red  Kerry  means  noth- 
ing in  my  young  life,  Jim." 

"Don't  'e?"  returned  Jim,  snarling  viciously.  "The 
way  he  cleaned  up  that  dope  crowd  awhile  back 
seemed  to  show  he  was  no  jug,  didn't  it?" 

The  Jew  made  a  racial  gesture  as  if  to  dismiss  the. 
subject. 

"All  right,"  continued  Poland.  "Think  that  way 
if  you  like.  But  the  patrols  have  been  doubled:  I 


4  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

suppose  you  know  that?  And  it's  a  cert  there  are 
special  men  on  duty,  ever  since  the  death  of  that 
Chink." 

Cohen  shifted  uneasily,  glancing  about  him  in  a 
furtive  fashion. 

"See  what  I  mean?"  continued  the  other.  "China- 
town ain't  healthy  just  now." 

He  finished  his  whisky  at  a  draught,  and,  standing 
up,  lurched  heavily  across  to  the  counter.  He  returned 
with  two  more  glasses.  Then,  reseating  himself  and 
bending  forward  again: 

"There's  one  thing  I  reckon  you  don't  know,"  he 
whispered  in  Cohen's  ear.  "I  saw  that  Chink  talking 
to  Laid  Huang  only  a  week  before  the  time  he  was 
hauled  out  of  Limehouse  Reach.  I'm  wondering, 
Diamond,  if,  with  all  your  cleverness,  you  may  not  go 
the  same  way." 

"Don't  try  to  pull  the  creep  stuff  on  me,  Jim,"  said 
Cohen  uneasily.  "What  are  you  driving  at,  anyway?" 

"Well,"  replied  Poland,  sipping  his  whisky  re- 
flectively, "how  did  that  Chink  get  into  the  river?" 

"How  the  devil  do  I  know?" 

"And  what  killed  him?  It  wasn't  drowning, 
although  he  was  all  swelled  up." 

"See  here,  old  pal,"  said  Cohen.  "I  know  'Frisco 
better  than  you  know  Limehouse.  Let  me  tell  you 
that  this  little  old  Chinatown  of  yours  is  pie  to  me. 
You're  trying  to  get  me  figuring  on  Chinese  death 
traps,  secret  poisons,  and  all  that  junk.  Boy,  you're 
wasting  your  poetry.  Even  if  you  did  see  the  Chink 
with  Lala,  and  I  doubt  it Oh,  don't  get  excited, 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HUANG  CHOW   5 

I'm  speaking  plain — there's  no  connection  that  I  can 
see  between  the  death  of  said  Chink  and  old  Huang 
Chow." 

"Ain't  there?'1  growled  Poland  huskily.  He 
grasped  the  other's  wrist  as  in  a  vise  and  bent  forward 
so  that  his  battered  face  was  close  to  the  pale 
countenance  of  the  Jew.  "I've  been  covering  old 
Huang  for  months  and  months.  Now  I'm  going  to 
tell  you  something.  Since  the  death  of  that  Chink 
Red  Kerry's  been  covering  him,  too." 

"See  here!"  Cohen  withdrew  his  arm  from  the 
other's  grasp  angrily.  "You  can't  freeze  me  out  of 
this  claim  with  bogey  stuff.  You're  listed,  my  lad, 
and  you  know  it.  Chief  Inspector  Kerry  is  your  pet 
nightmare.  But  if  he  walked  in  here  right  now  I 
could  ask  him  to  have  a  drink.  I  wouldn't  but  I 
could.  You've  got  the  wrong  angle,  Jim.  Laid  likes 
me  fine,  and  although  she  doesn't  say  much,  what  she 
does  say  is  straight.  I'll  ask  her  to-night  about  the 
Chink." 

"Then  you'll  be  a  damned  fool." 

"What's  that?" 

"I  say  you'll  be  a  damned  fool.  I'm  warning  you, 
Freddy.  There  are  Chinks  and  Chinks.  All  the 
boys  know  old  Huang  Chow  has  got  a  regular  gold 
mine  buried  somewhere  under  the  floor.  But  all  the 
boys  don't  know  what  I  know,  and  it  seems  that  you 
don't  either." 

"What  is  that?" 

Jim  Poland  bent  forward  more  argently,  again 
seizing  Cohen's  wrist,  and: 


6  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"Huang  Chow  is  a  mighty  big  bug  amongst  the 
Chinese,"  he  whispered,  glancing  cautiously  about  him. 
"He's  hellish  clever  and  rotten  with  money.  A  man 
.like  that  wants  handling.  I'm  not  telling  you  what  I 
know.  But  call  it  fifty-fifty  and  maybe  you'll  come 
out  alive." 

The  brow  of  Diamond  Fred  displayed  beads  of 
perspiration,  and  with  a  blue  silk  handkerchief  which 
he  carried  in  his  breast  pocket  he  delicately  dried  his 
forehead. 

"You're  an  old  hand  at  this  stuff,  Jim,"  he  muttered. 
"It  amounts  to  this,  I  suppose;  that  if  I  don't  agree 
you'll  queer  my  game?" 

Jim  Poland's  brow  lowered  and  he  clenched  his  fists 
formidably.  Then : 

"Listen,"  he  said  in  his  hoarse  voice.  "It  ain't 
your  claim  any  more  than  mine.  You've  covered  it 
different,  that's  all.  Yours  was  always  the  petticoat 
lay.  Mine's  slower  but  safer.  Is  anyone  else  in  with 
you?" 

"No." 

"Then  we'll  double  up.  Now  I'll  tell  you  some- 
thing. I  was  backing  out." 

"What?     You  were  going  to  quit?" 

"I  was." 

"Why?" 

"Because  the  thing's  too  dead  easy,  and  a  thing 
like  that  always  looks  like  hell  to  me." 

Freddy  Cohen  finished  his  glass  of  whisky. 

"Wait  while  I  get  some  more  drinks,"  he  said. 

In  this  way,  then,  at  about  the  hour  of  ten  on  a 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HUANG  CHOW   7 

stuffy  autumn  night,  in  the  crowded  bar  of  that  Wap- 
ping  public-house,  these  two  made  a  compact;  and  of 
its  outcome  and  of  the  next  appearance  of  Cohen,  the 
Jewish-American  cracksman,  within  the  ken  of  man,  I 
shall  now  proceed  to  tell. 


II 

THE  END  OF  COHEN 

I'VE  been   expecting  this,"   said   Chief  Inspector 
Kerry. 
He  tilted  his  bowler  hat  farther  forward  over 
his  brow  and  contemplated  the  ghastly  exhibit  which 
lay  upon  the  slab  of  the  mortuary.     Two  other  police 
officers — one    in    uniform — were    present,    and    they 
treated  the  celebrated  Chief  Inspector  with  the  defer- 
'ence  which  he  had  not  only  earned  but  had  always 
demanded  from  his  subordinates. 

Earmarked  for  important  promotion,  he  was  an 
interesting  figure  as  he  stood  there  in  the  gloomy, 
ill-lighted  place,  his  pose  that  of  an  athlete  about  to 
perform  a  long  jump,  or  perhaps,  as  it  might  have 
appeared  to  some,  that  of  a  dancing-master  about  to 
demonstrate  a  new  step. 

His  close-cropped  hair  was  brilliantly  red,  and  so 
was  his  short,  wiry,  aggressive  moustache.  He  was 
ruddy  of  complexion,  and  he  looked  out  unblinkingly 
upon  the  world  with  a  pair  of  steel-blue  eyes.  Neat 
he  was  to  spruceness,  and  while  of  no  more  than 
medium  height  he  had  the  shoulders  of  an  acrobat. 

The  detective  who  stood  beside  him,  by  name  John 
Durham,  had  one  trait  in  common  with  his  celebrated 

8 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HUANG  CHOW   9 

superior.  This  was  a  quick  keenness,  a  sort  of  alert 
vitality,  which  showed  in  his  eyes,  and  indeed  in  every 
line  of  his  thin,  clean-shaven  face.  Kerry  had  picked 
him  out  as  the  most  promising  junior  in  his  department. 

"Give  me  the  particulars,"  said  the  Chief  Inspector. 
"It  isn't  robbery.  He's  wearing  a  diamond  ring 
worth  two  hundred  pounds." 

His  diction  was  rapid  and  terse — so  rapid  as  to 
create  the  impression  that  he  bit  off  the  ends  of  the 
longer  words.  He  turned  his  fierce  blue  eyes  upon 
the  uniformed  officer  who  stood  at  the  end  of  the  slab. 

"They  are  very  few,  Chief  Inspector,"  was  the 
reply.  "He  was  hauled  out  by  the  river  police  shortly 
after  midnight,  at  the  lower  end  of  Limehouse  Reach. 
He  was  alive  then — they  heard  his  cry — but  he  died 
while  they  were  hauling  him  into  the  boat." 

"Any  statement?"  rapped  Kerry. 

"He  was  past  it,  Chief  Inspector.  According  to 
the  report  of  the  officer  in  charge,  he  mumbled  some- 
thing which  sounded  like :  'It  has  bitten  me,'  just  be- 
fore he  became  unconscious." 

"  'It  has  bitten  me,'  "  murmured  Kerry.  "The 
divisional  surgeon  has  seen  him?" 

"Yes,  Chief  Inspector.  And  in  his  opinion  the  man 
did  not  die  from  drowning,  but  from  some  form  of 
virulent  poisoning." 

"Poisoning?" 

"That's  the  idea.  There  will  be  a  further  examin- 
ation, of  course.  Either  a  hypodermic  injection  or 
a  bite." 

"A  bite?"  said  Kerry.     "The  bite  of  what?" 


io  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"That  I  cannot  say,  Chief  Inspector.  A  venomous 
reptile,  I  suppose." 

Kerry  stared  down  critically  at  the  swollen  face  of 
the  victim,  and  then  glanced  sharply  aside  at  Durham. 

"Accounts  for  his  appearance,  I  suppose,"  he  mur- 
mured. 

"Yes,"  said  Durham  quietly.  "He  hadn't  been  in 
the  water  long  enough  to  look  like  that."  He  turned 
to  the  local  officer.  "Is  there  any  theory  as  to  the 
point  at  which  he  went  in?" 

"Well,  an  arrest  has  been  made." 

"By  whom?  of  whom?"  rapped  Kerry. 

"Two  constables  patrolling  the  Chinatown  area 
arrested  a  man  for  suspicious  loitering.  He  turned 
out  to  be  a  well-known  criminal — Jim  Poland,  with  a 
whole  list  of  convictions  against  him.  They're  hold- 
ing him  at  Limehouse  Station,  and  the  theory  is  that 

he  was  operating  with "  He  nodded  in  the 

direction  of  the  body. 

"Then  who's  the  smart  with  the  swollen  face?" 
inquired  Kerry.  "He's  a  new  one  on  me." 

"Yes,  but  he's  been  identified  by  one  of  the  K  Divi- 
sion men.  He  is  an  American  crook  with  a  clean 
slate,  so  far  as  this  side  is  concerned.  Cohen  is  his 
name.  And  the  idea  seems  to  be  that  he  went  in  at 
some  point  between  where  he  was  found  by  the  river 
police  and  the  point  at  which  Jim  Poland  was 
arrested." 

Kerry  snapped  his  teeth  together  audibly,  and : 

"I'm  open  to  learn,"  he  said,  "that  the  house  of 
Huang  Chow  is  within  that  area." 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HUANG  CHOW  n 

"It  is." 

"I  thought  so.  He  died  the  same  way  the  China- 
man died  awhile  ago,"  snapped  Kerry  savagely.  "It 
looks  very  queer."J  He  glanced  aside  at  the  local 
officer!  "Cover  him  up,"  he  ordered,  and,  turning, 
he  walked  briskly  out  of  the  mortuary,  followed  by 
Detective  Durham. 

Although  dawn  was  not  far  off,  this  was  the  darkest 
hour  of  the  night,  so  that  even  the  sounds  of  dockland 
were  muted  and  the  riverside  slept  as  deeply  as  the 
great  port  of  London  ever  sleeps.  Vague  murmur- 
ings  there  were  and  distant  clankings,  with  the  hum 
of  machinery  which  is  never  still. 

Few  of  London's  millions  were  awake  at  that  hour, 
yet  Scotland  Yard  was  awake  in  the  person  of  the 
fierce-eyed  Chief  Inspector  and  his  subordinate.  Per- 
haps those  who  lightly  criticize  the  Metropolitan 
Force  might  have  learned  a  new  respect  for  the 
tireless  vigilance  which  keeps  London  clean  and 
wholesome,  had  they  witnessed  this  scene  on  the 
borders  of  Limehouse,  as  Kerry,  stepping  into  a  wait- 
ing taxi-cab  accompanied  by  Durham,  proceeded  to 
Limehouse  Police  Station  in  that  still  hour  when  the 
City  slept. 

The  arrival  of  Kerry  created  something  of  a  stir 
amongst  the  officials  on  duty.  His  reputation  in  these 
days  was  at  least  as  great  as  that  of  the  most  garrulous 
Labour  member. 

The  prisoner  was  in  cells,  but  the  Chief  Inspector 
elected  to  interview  him  in  the  office ;  and  accordingly, 
while  the  officer  in  charge  sat  at  an  extremely  tidy 


12  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

writing-table,  tapping  the  blotting-pad  with  a  pencil, 
and  Detective  John  Durham  stood  beside  him,  Kerry 
paced  up  and  down  the  little  room,  deep  in  reflection, 
until  the  door  opened  and  the  prisoner  was  brought  in. 

One  swift  glance  the  Chief  Inspector  gave  at  the 
battle-scarred  face,  and  recognized  instantly  that  this 
was  a  badly  frightened  man.  Crossing  to  the  table 
he  took  up  a  typewritten  slip  which  lay  there,  and : 

"Your  name  is  James  Poland?"  he  said.  'Tour 
convictions;  one,  robbery  with  violence." 

Jim  Poland  nodded  sullenly. 

"You  were  arrested  at  the  corner  of  Pekin  Street 
about  midnight.  What  were  you  doing  there?" 

"Taking  a  walk." 

"I'll  say  it  again,"  rapped  Kerry,  fixing  his  fierce 
eyes  upon  the  man's  face.  "What  were  you  doing 
there?" 

"I've  told  you." 

"And  I  tell  you  you're  a  liar.  Where  did  you  leave 
the  man  Cohen?" 

Poland  blinked  his  small  eyes,  cleared  his  throat, 
and  looked  down  at  the  floor  uneasily.  Then : 

"Who's  Cohen?"  he  grunted. 

"You  mean,  who  was  Cohen?"  cried  Kerry. 

The  shot  went  home.  The  man  clenched  his  fists 
and  looked  about  the  room  from  face  to  face. 

"You  don't  tell  me "  he  began  huskily. 

"I've  told  you,"  said  Kerry.  "He's  on  the  slab. 
Spit  out  the  truth;  it'll  be  good  for  your  health." 

The  man  hesitated,  then  looked  up,  his  eyes  half 
closed  and  a  cunning  expression  upon  his  face. 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HUANG  CHOW  13 

"Make  out  your  own  case,"  he  said.  "You've  got 
nothing  against  me." 

Kerry  snapped  his  teeth  together  viciously. 

"I've  told  you  what  happened  to  your  pal,"  he 
warned.  "If  you're  a  wise  man  you'll  come  in  on  our 
side,  before  the  same  thing  happens  to  you." 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,"  growled 
Poland. 

Kerry  nodded  to  the  constable  at  the  doorway. 

"Take  him  back,"  he  ordered. 

Jim  Poland  being  returned  to  his  cell,  Kerry,  as 
the  door  closed  behind  the  prisoner  and  his  guard, 
stared  across  at  Durham  where  he  stood  beside  the 
table. 

"An  old  hand,"  he  said.  "But  there's  another 
way."  He  glanced  at  the  officer  in  charge.  "Hold 
him  till  the  morning.  He'll  prove  useful." 

From  his  waistcoat  pocket  he  took  out  a  slip  of 
chewing  gum,  unwrapped  it,  and  placed  the  mint- 
flavoured  wafer  between  his  large  white  teeth.  He 
bit  upon  it  savagely,  settled  his  hat  upon  his  head,  and, 
turning,  walked  toward  the  door.  In  the  doorway 
he  paused. 

"Come  with  me,  Durham,"  he  said.  "I  am  leav- 
ing the  conduct  of  the  case  entirely  in  your  hands  from 
now  onward." 

Detective  Durham  looked  surprised  and  not  a  little 
anxious. 

"I  am  doing  so  for  two  reasons,"  continued  the 
Chief  Inspector.  "These  two  reasons  I  shall  now  ex- 
plain." 


Ill 

THE  SECRET  TREASURE-HOUSE 

UNLIKE  its  sister  colony  in  New  York,  there 
are  no  show  places  in  Limehouse.  The  visitor 
sees  nothing  but  mean  streets  and  dark  door- 
ways.    The  superficial  inquirer  comes  away  convinced 
that  the  romance  of  the  Asiatic  district  has  no  ex- 
istence outside  the  imaginations  of  writers  of  fiction. 
Yet  here  lies  a  secret  quarter,  as  secret  and  as  strange, 
in  its  smaller  way,  as  its  parent  in  China  which  is 
called  the  Purple  Forbidden  City. 

On  a  morning  when  mist  lay  over  the  Thames 
reaches,  softening  the  harshness  of  the  dock  buildings 
and  lending  an  air  of  mystery  to  the  vessels  stealing 
out  upon  the  tide,  a  man  walked  briskly  along  Lime- 
house  Causeway,  looking  about  him  inquiringly,  as 
one  unfamiliar  with  the  neighbourhood.  Presently 
he  seemed  to  recognize  a  turning  to  the  right,  and  he 
pursued  this  for  a  time,  now  walking  more  slowly. 

A  European  woman,  holding  a  half-caste  baby  in 
her  arms,  stood  in  an  open  doorway,  watching  him 
uninterestedly.  Otherwise,  except  for  one  neatly 
dressed  young  Chinaman,  who  passed  him  about  half- 
way along  the  street,  there  was  nothing  which  could 
have  told  the  visitor  that  he  had  crossed  the  border 

14 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HUANG  CHOW  15 

line  dividing  West  from  East  and  was  now   in   an 
Oriental  town. 

A  very  narrow  alleyway  between  two  dingy  houses 
proved  to  be  the  spot  for  which  he  was  looking;  and, 
having  stared  about  him  for  a  while,  he  entered  this 
alleyway.  At  the  farther  end  it  was  crossed 
T-fashion,  by  another  alley,  the  only  object  of  interest 
being  an  iron  post  at  the  crossing,  and  the  scenery 
being  made  up  entirely  of  hideous  brick  walls. 

About  halfway  along  on  the  left,  set  in  one  of 
these  walls,  were  strong  wooden  gates,  apparently 
those  of  a  warehouse.  Beside  them  was  a  door  ap- 
proached by  two  very  dirty  steps.  There  was  a  bell- 
push  near  the  door,  but  upon  neither  of  these  entrances 
was  there  any  plate  to  indicate  the  name  of  the  pro- 
prietor of  the  establishment. 

From  his  pocket-book  the  visitor  extracted  a  card, 
consulted  something  written  upon  it,  and  then  pressed 
the  bell. 

It  was  very  quiet  in  this  dingy  little  court.  No 
sound  of  the  busy  thoroughfares  penetrated  here ;  and 
although  the  passage  forming  the  top  of  the  UT" 
practically  marked  the  river  bank,  only  dimly  could 
one  disce/n  the  sounds  which  belong  to  a  seaport. 

Presently  the  door  was  opened  by  a  Chinese  boy 
who  wore  the  ordinary  native  working  dress,  and  who 
regarded  the  man  upon  the  step  with  oblique,  tired- 
looking  eyes. 

"Mr.  Huang  Chow?"  asked  the  caller. 

The  boy  nodded. 

"You  wantchee  him  see?"    /f^Y 


1 6  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"If  he  is  at  home." 

The  boy  glanced  at  the  card,  which  the  visitor 
still  held  between  finger  and  thumb,  and  extended  his 
hand  silently.  The  card  was  surrendered.  It  was 
that  of  an  antique  dealer  of  Dover  Street,  Piccadilly, 
and  written  upon  the  back  was  the  following:  "Mr. 
Hampden  would  like  to  do  business  with  you."  The 
signature  of  the  dealer  followed. 

The  boy  turned  and  passed  along  a  dim  and  per- 
fectly unfurnished  passage  which  the  opening  of  the 
door  had  revealed,  while  Mr.  Hampden  stood  upon 
the  step  and  lighted  a  cigarette. 

In  less  than  a  minute  the  boy  returned  and  beckoned 
to  him  to  come  in.  As  he  did  so,  and  the  door  was 
closed,  he  almost  stumbled,  so  dark  was  the  passage. 

Presently,  guided  by  the  boy,  he  found  himself  in  a 
very  business-like  little  office,  where  a  girl  sat  at  an 
American  desk,  looking  up  at  him  inquiringly. 

She  was  of  a  dark  and  arresting  type.     Without 


being  pretty  in  the  European  sense,  there  was  some- 


thing appealing  in  her  fine,  dark  eyes,  and  she  pos- 
sessed the  inviting  smile  which  is  the  heritage  of 
Eastern  women.  Her  dress  was  not  unlike  that  of 
any  other  business  girl,  except  that  the  neck  of  her 
blouse  was  cut  very  low,  a  fashion  affected  by  many 
Eurasians,  and  she  wore  a  gaily  coloured  sash,  and 
large  and  very  costly  pearl  ear-rings.  As  Mr.  Hamp- 
,  den  paused  in  the  doorway : 

"Good  morning,"  said  the  girl,  glancing  down  at 
the  card  which  lay  upon  the  desk  before  her.  "You 
come  from  Mr.  Isaacs,  eh?" 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HUANG  CHOW  17 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  caressing  glance  from 
beneath  half-lowered  lashes,  but  missed  no  detail  of 
his  appearance.  She  did  not  quite  like  his  moustache, 
and  thought  that  he  would  have  looked  better  clean- 
shaven. Nevertheless,  he  was  a  well-set-up  fellow, 
and  her  manner  evidenced  approval. 

uYes,"  he  replied,  smiling  genially.  "I  have  a 
small  commission  to  execute,  and  I  am  told  that  you 
can  help  me." 

The  girl  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then: 

"Yes,  very  likely,"  she  said,  speaking  good  English 
but  with  an  odd  intonation.  "It  is  not  jade?  We 
have  very  little  jade." 

"No,  no.     I  wanted  an  enamelled  casket." 

"What  kind?" 

"Cloisonne." 

"Cloisonne?     Yes,  we  have  several." 

She  pressed  a  bell,  and,  glancing  up  at  the  boy  who 
had  stood  throughout  the  interview  at  the  visitor's 
elbow^addressed  him  rapidly  in  Chinese.  He  nodded 
hisT head  and  led  the  way  through  a  second  doorway. 
Closing  this,  he  opened  a  third  and  ushered  Mr. 
Hampden  into  a  room  which  nearly  caused  the  latter 
to  gasp  with  astonishment. 

One  who  had  blundered  from  Whitechapel  into  tK 
Khan  Khalil,  who  had  been  transported  upon  a  magic 
carpet  from  a  tube  station  to  the  Taj  Mahal,  or 
dropped  suddenly  upon  Lebanon  hills  to  find  himself 
looking  down  upon  the  pearly  domes  and  jewelled 
gardens  of  Damascus,  could  not  well  have  been  more 
surprised.  This  great  treasure-house  of  old  Huang 


1 8  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

Chow  was  one  of  Chinatown's  secrets — a  secret  shared 
only  by  those  whose  commercial  interests  were  identical 
with  the  interests  of  Huang  Chow. 

The  place  was  artificially  lighted  by  lamps  which 
themselves  were  beautiful  objects  of  art,  and  which 
swung  from  the  massive  beams  of  the  ceiling.  The 
floor  of  the  warehouse,  which  was  partly  of  stone,  was 
covered  with  thick  matting,  and  spread  upon  it  were 
rugs  and  carpets  of  Karadagh,  Kermanshah,  Sultan- 
abad,  and  Khorassan,  with  lesser-known  loomings  of 
almost  equal  beauty.  Skins  of  rare  beasts  overlay  the 
divans.  Furniture  of  ivory,  of  ebony  and  lemonwood, 
preciously  inlaid,  gave  to  the  place  an  air  of  cunning 
confusion.  There  were  tall  cabinets,  there  were 
caskets  and  chests  of  exquisite  lacquer  and  enamel, 
loot  of  an  emperor's  palace;  robes  heavy  with  gold; 
slippers  studded  with  jewels;  strange  carven  ivories; 
glittering  weapons;  pots,  jars,  and  bowls,  as  delicate 
and  as  fragile  as  the  petals  of  a  lily. 

Last,  but  not  least,  sitting  cross-legged  upon  a 
low  couch,  was  old  Huang  Chow,  smoking  a  great 
curved  pipe,  and  peering  half  blindly  across  the  place 
through  large  horn-rimmed  spectacles.  This  couch 
was  set  immediately  beside  a  wide  ascending  stair- 
case, richly  carpeted,  and  on  the  other  side  of 
the  staircase,  in  a  corresponding  recess,  upon  a 
gilded  trestle  carved  to  represent  the  four  claws 
of  a  dragon,  rested  perhaps  the  strangest  exhibit 
of  that  strange  collection — a  Chinese  coffin  of  ex- 
quisite workmanship. 

The  boy  retired,  and  Mr.  Hampden  found  himself 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HUANG  CHOW  19 

alone  with   Huang   Chow.     No  word  had  been   ex- 
changed between  master  and  servant,  but: 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Hampden,"  said  the  China- 
man in  a  high,  thin  voice.  "Please  be  seated.  It  is 
from  Mr.  Isaacs  you  come?" 


IV 

PERSONAL  REPORT  OF  DETECTIVE  JOHN  DURHAM  TO 

CHIEF  INSPECTOR  KERRY,  OFFICER  IN  CHARGE  OF 

LIMEHOUSE  INQUIRY 

DEAR  CHIEF  INSPECTOR, — Following  your  instruc- 
tions I  returned  and  interviewed  the  prisoner  Poland 
in  his  cell.  I  took  the  line  which  you  had  suggested, 
pointing  out  to  him  that  he  had  nothing  to  gain  and 
everything  to  lose  by  keeping  silent. 

"Answer  my  questions,"  I  said,  "and  you  can  walk 
straight  out.  Otherwise,  you'll  be  up  before  the 
magistrate,  and  on  your  record  alone  it  will  mean  a 
holiday  which  you  probably  don't  want." 

He  was  very  truculent,  but  I  got  him  in  a  good 
humour  at  last,  and  he  admitted  that  he  had  been 
cooperating  with  the  dead  man,  Cohen,  in  an  attempt 
to  burgle  the  house  of  Huang  Chow.  His  reluctance 
to  go  into  details  seemed  to  be  due  rather  to  fear  of 
Huang  Chow  than  to  fear  of  the  law,  and  I  presently 
gathered  that  he  regarded  Huang  as  responsible  for 
the  death  not  only  of  Cohen,  but  also  of  the  China- 
man who  was  hauled  out  of  the  river  about  three 
weeks  ago,  as  you  well  remember.  The  post-mortem 
showed  that  he  had  died  of  some  kind  of  poisoning, 
and  when  we  saw  Cohen  in  the  mortuary,  his  swollen 

20 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HUANG  CHOW  21 

appearance  struck  me  as  being  very  similar  to  that 
of  the  Chinaman.  ( See  my  report  dated  3 1  st  ultimo. ) 

He  finally  agreed  to  talk  if  I  would  promise  that 
he  should  not  be  charged  and  that  his  name  should 
never  be  mentioned  to  anyone  in  connection  with  what 
he  might  tell  me.  I  promised  him  that  outside  the 
ordinary  official  routine  I  would  respect  his  request, 
and  he  told  me  some  very  curious  things,  which  no 
doubt  have  a  bearing  on  the  case. 

For  instance,  he  had  discovered — I  don't  know  in 
what  way — that  the  dead  Chinaman,  whose  name  was 
Pi  Lung,  had  been  in  negotiation  with  Huang  Chow 
for  some  sort  of  job  in  his  warehouse.  Poland  had 
seen  the  man  talking  to  Huang's  daughter,  at  the  end 
of  the  alley  which  leads  to  the  place.  He  seemed  to 
attach  extraordinary  importance  to  this  fact.  At  last : 

"I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,"  he  said.  "That  Chink 
was  a  stranger  to  Limehouse;  I  can  swear  to  it.  He 
was  a  gent  of  his  hands;  I  reckon  they've  got  'em  in 
China  as  well  as  here.  He  went  out  for  the  old  boy's 
money-box,  and  finished  like  Cohen  finished." 

"Make  your  meaning  clearer,"  I  said. 

"My  meaning's  this :  Old  Huang  Chow  is  the  biggest 
dealer  in  stolen  and  smuggled  valuables  from  overseas 
we've  got  in  London.  He's  something  else  as  well; 
he's  a  big  swell  in  China.  But  here's  the  point.  He's 
got  business  with  buyers  all  over  London,  and  they 
have  to  pay  cash — no  checks.  He  doesn't  bank  it: 
I've  proved  that.  He's  got  it  in  gold,  or  diamonds, 
or  something,  being  wise  to  present  conditions,  hidden 
there  in  the  house.  Pi  Lung  was  after  his  hoard. 


22  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

He  didn't  get  it.  Cohen  and  me  was  after  it. 
Where's  Cohen?" 

I  agreed  that  it  looked  very  suspicious,  and 
presently : 

"When  I  went  in  with  Cohen,"  continued  Poland, 
"I  knew  one  thing  he  didn't  know — a  short  cut  into  the 
warehouse.  He's  been  playing  pretty-like  with  Lala, 
old  Huang's  daughter,  and  it's  my  belief  that  he  knew 
where  the  store  was  hidden;  but  he  never  told  me. 
We  knew  there  were  special  men  on  duty,  and  we'd 
arranged  that  I  was  to  give  a  signal  when  the  patrol 
had  passed.  Cohen  all  the  time  had  planned  to  double 
on  me.  While  I  was  watching  down  on  the  Causeway 
end  he  climbed  up  and  got  in  through  the  skylight  I'd 
shown  him.  When  I  got  there  he  was  missing,  but 
the  skylight  was  open.  I  started  off  after  him." 

Then  Poland  clutched  me,  and  his  fright  was  very 
real. 

"I  heard  a  shriek  like  nothing  I  ever  heard  in  my 
life.  I  saw  a  light  shine  through  the  trap,  and  then  I 
heard  a  sort  of  moaning.  Last,  I  heard  a  bang,  and 
the  light  went  out.  I  staggered  down  the  passage 
half  silly,  started  to  run,  and  ran  straight  into  the 
arms  of  two  coppers." 

This  evidence  I  thought  was  conclusive,  and  in 
accordance  with  your  instructions  I  proceeded  to  Mr. 
Isaacs  in  Dover  Street.  He  didn't  seem  too  pleased 
at  my  suggestion,  but  when  I  pointed  out  to  him  that 
one  good  turn  deserved  another,  he  agreed  to  give  me 
an  introduction  to  Huang  Chow. 

I  adopted  a  very  simple  disguise,  just  altering  my 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HUANG  CHOW  23 

complexion  and  sticking  on  a  moustache  with  spirit 
gum,  hair  by  hair,  and  trimming  it  down  military 
fashion.  Everything  ran  smoothly,  and  I  seemed  to 
make  a  fairly  favourable  impression  upon  Laid 
Huang,  the  Chinaman's  daughter,  who  evidently  inter- 
views prospective  customers  before  they  are  admitted 
to  the  warehouse. 

She  is  a  Eurasian  and  extremely  good  looking. 
But  when  I  found  myself  in  the  room  where  old 
Huang  keeps  his  treasures,  I  really  thought  I  was 
dreaming.  It's  a  collection  that  must  be  worth 
thousands.  He  showed  me  snuff-bottles,  cut  out  of 
gems,  and  with  a  little  opening  no  bigger  than  the  hole 
in  a  pipe-stem,  but  with  wonderful  paintings  done 
inside  the  bottles.  He'd  got  a  model  of  a  pagoda"~\ 
made  out  of  human  teeth,  and  a  big  golden  rug  woven  \ 
from  the  hair  of  Circassian  slave  girls.  Excuse  this, 
Chief  Inspector;  I  know  it  is  what  you  call  the  roman- 
tic stuff;  but  I  think  it  would  have  impressed  you  if  you 
had  seen  it. 

Anyway,  I  bought  a  little  enamelled  box,  in  ac- 
cordance with  Mr.  Isaacs's  instructions,  although 
whether  I  succeeded  in  convincing  Huang  Chow  that 
I  knew  anything  about  the  matter  is  more  than  doubt- 
ful. He  got  up  from  a  sort  of  throne  he  sits  on,  and 
led  the  way  up  a  broad  staircase  to  a  private  room 
above. 

"Of  course,  you  have  brought  the  cash,  Mr.  Hamp- 
den?"  he  said.  / 

He  speaks  quite  faultless  English.  He  walked  up 
three  steps  to  a  sort  of  raised  writing-table  in  this 


24  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

upstairs  room,  and  I  counted  out  the  money  to  him. 
When  he  sat  at  the  table  he  faced  toward  the  room, 
and  I  couldn't  help  thinking  that,  in  his  horn-rimmed 
spectacles,  he  looked  like  some  old  magistrate.  He 
explained  that  he  would  pack  the  purchase  for  me,  but 
that  I  must  personally  take  it  away.  And: 

"You  understand,"  said  he,  "that  you  bought  it  from 
a  gentleman  who  had  purchased  it  abroad." 

I  said  I  quite  understood.  He  bowed  me  out  very 
politely,  and  presently  I  found  myself  back  in  the 
office  with  Lala  Huang. 

She  seemed  quite  disposed  to  talk,  and  I  chatted 
with  her  while  the  box  was  being  packed  for  me  to 
take  away.  I  knew  I  must  make  good  use  of  my 
time,  but  you  have  never  given  me  a  job  I  liked  less. 
I  mean,  there  is  something  very  appealing  about  her, 
and  I  hated  to  think  that  I  was  playing  a  double  game. 
However,  without  actually  agreeing  to  see  me  again, 
she  told  me  enough  to  enable  me  to  meet  her  "acci- 
dentally," if  I  wanted  to.  Therefore,  I  am  going  to 
look  out  for  her  this  evening,  and  probably  take  her 
to  a  picture  palace,  or  somewhere  where  we  can  have 
a  quiet  talk.  She  seems  to  be  fancy  free,  and  for 
some  reason  I  feel  sorry  for  the  girl.  I  don't  alto- 
gether like  the  job,  but  I  hope  to  justify  your  faith  in 
me,  Chief. 

I  will  prepare  my  official  report  this  evening  when 
I  return. 

Yours  obediently, — JOHN  DURHAM. 


LALA  HUANG 

NO,  SAID  Lala  Huang,  "I  don't  like  London 
— not  this  part  of  London." 
"Where   would   you   rather   be?"    asked 
Durham.     uln  China?" 

Dusk  had  dropped  its  merciful  curtain  over  Lime- 
house,  and  as  the  two  paced  slowly  along  West  India 
Dock  Road  it  seemed  to  the  detective  that  a  sort  of 
glamour  had  crept  into  the  scene. 

He  was  a  clever  man  within  his  limitations,  and 
cultured  up  to  a  point;  but  he  was  not  philosopher 
enough  to  know  that  he  viewed  the  purlieus  of  Lime- 
house  through  a  haze  of  Oriental  mystery  conjured 
up  by  the  conversation  of  his  companion.  Temple 
bells  there  were  in  the  clangour  of  the  road  cars.  The 
smoke-stacks  had  a  semblance  of  pagodas.  Burma 
she  had  conjured  up  before  him,  and  China,  and  the 
soft  islands  where  she  had  first  seen  the  light.  For 
as  well  as  a  streak  of  European,  there  was  Kanaka 
blood  in  Lala,  which  lent  her  an  appeal  quite  new  to 
Durham,  insidious  and  therefore  dangerous. 

"Not  China,"  she  replied.  "Somehow  I  don't 
think  I  shall  ever  see  China  again.  But  my  father  is 
rich,  and  it  is  dreadful  to  think  that  we  live  here  when 
there  are  so  many  more  beautiful  places  to  live  in." 

25 


26  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"Then  why  does  he  stay?"  asked  Durham  with 
curiosity. 

]  "For  money,  always  for  money,"  answered  Lala, 
shrugging  her  shoulders.  "Yet  if  it  is  not  to  bring 
happiness,  wrhat  good  is  it?" 

"What  good  indeed?"  murmured  Durham. 

"There  is  no  fun  for  me,"  said  the  girl  pathetically. 
"Sometimes  someone  nice  comes  to  do  business,  but 

mostly  they  are  Jews,  Jews,  always  Jews,  and " 

Again  she  shrugged  eloquently. 

Durham  perceived  the  very  opening  for  which  he 
had  been  seeking.. 

"You  evidently  don't  like  Jews,"  he  said  endeavour- 
ing to  speak  lightly. 

"No,"  murmured  the  .girl,  "I  don't  think  I  do. 
Some  are  nice,  though.  I  think  it  is  the  same  with 
every  kind  of  people — there  are  good  and  bad." 

"Were  you  ever  in  America?"  asked  Durham. 

"No." 

"I  was  just  thinking,"  he  explained,  "that  I  have 
known  several  American  Jews  who  were  quite  good 
fellows." 

"Yes?"  said  Lala,  looking  up  at  him  naively,  "I 
met  one  not  long  ago.  He  was  not  nice  at  all." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Durham,  startled  by  this  admis- 
sion, which  he  had  not  anticipated.  "One  of  your 
father's  customers?" 

"Yes,  a  man  named  Cohen." 

"Cohen?" 

"A  funny  little  chap,"  continued  the  girl.  "He 
tried  to  make  love  to  me."  She  lowered  her  lashes 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HUANG  CHOW  27 

roguishly.  "I  knew  all  along  he  was  pretending.  He 
was  a  thief,  I  think.  I  was  afraid  of  him." 

Durham  did  some  rapid  thinking,  then: 

uDid  you  say  his  name  was  Cohen?1'  he  asked. 

"That  was  the  name  he  gave." 

"A  man  named  Cohen,  an  American,  was  found 
dead  in  the  river  quite  recently." 

Lala  stopped  dead  and  clutched  his  arm. 

"How  do  you  know?"  she  demanded. 

"There  was  a  paragraph  in  this  morning's  paper." 

She  hesitated,  then : 

"Did  it  describe  him?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  replied  Durham,  "I  don't  think  it  did  in 
detail.  At  least,  the  only  part  of  the  description  which 
I  remember  is  that  he  wore  a  large  and  valuable 
diamond  on  his  left  hand." 

"Oh!"  whispered  Lala. 

She  released  her  grip  of  Durham's  arm  and  went 
on. 

"What?"  he  asked.  "Did  you  think  it  was  some- 
one you  knew?" 

"I  did  know  him,"  she  replied  simply.  "The  man 
who  was  found  drowned.  It  is  the  same.  I  am  sure 
now,  because  of  the  diamond  ring.  What  paper  did 
you  read  it  in?  I  want  to  read  it  myself." 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  remember.  It  was  probably 
the  Daily  Mail/' 

"Had  he  been  drowned?" 

"I  presume  so — yes,"  replied  Durham  guardedly. 

Lala  Huang  was  silent  for  some  time  while  they 
paced  on  through  the  dusk.  Then: 


28  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"How  strange !"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"I  am  sorry  I  mentioned  it,"  declared  Durham. 
"But  how  was  I  to  know  it  was  your  friend?" 

"He  was  no  friend  of  mine,"  returned  the  girl 
sharply.  "I  hated  him.  But  it  is  strange  neverthe- 
less. I  am  sure  he  intended  to  rob  my  father." 

"And  is  that  why  you  think  it  strange?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  but  her  voice  was  almost  in- 
audible. 

They  were  come  now  to  the  narrow  street  com- 
municating with  the  courtway  in  which  the  great 
treasure-house  of  Huang  Chow  was  situated,  and 
Laid  stopped  at  the  corner. 

"It  was  nice  of  you  to  walk  along  with  me,"  she 
said.  "Do  you  live  in  Limehouse?" 

"No,"  replied  Durham,  "I  don't.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  I  came  down  here  to-night  in  the  hope  of  seeing 
you  again." 

"Did  you?" 

The  girl  glanced  up  at  him  doubtfully,  and  his 
distaste  for  the  task  set  him  by  his  superior  increased 
with  the  passing  of  every  moment.  He  was  a  man  of 
some  imagination,  a  great  reader,  and  ambitious  pro- 
fessionally. He  appreciated  the  fact  that  Chief 
Inspector  Kerry  looked  for  great  things  from  him,  but 
for  this  type  of  work  he  had  little  inclination. 

There  was  too  much  chivalry  in  his  make-up  to 
enable  him  to  play  upon  a  woman's  sentiments,  even 
in  the  interests  of  justice.  By  whatever  means  the 
man  Cohen  had  met  his  death,  and  whether  or  no  the 
Chinaman  Pi  Lung  had  died  by  the  same  hand,  Lala 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HUANG  CHOW  29 

Huang  was  innocent  of  any  complicity  in  these  matters, 
he  was  perfectly  well  assured. 

Doubts  were  to  come  later  when  he  was  away  from 
her,  when  he  had  had  leisure  to  consider  that  she  might 
regard  him  in  the  light  of  a  third  potential  rifler  of 
her  father's  treasure-house.  But  at  the  moment, 
looking  down  into  her  dark  eyes,  he  reproached  him- 
self and  wondered  where  his  true  duty  lay. 

"It  is  so  gray  and  dull  and  sordid  here,"  said  the 
girl,  looking  down  the  darkened  street.  "There  is  no 
one  much  to  talk  to." 

"But  you  have  your  business  interests  to  keep  you 
employed  during  the  day,  after  all." 

"I  hate  it  all.     I  hate  it  all." 

"But  you  seem  to  have  perfect  freedom?" 

"Yes.     My  mother,  you  see,  was  not  Chinese." 

"But  you  wish  to  leave  Limehouse?" 

"I  do.  I  do.  Just  now  it  is  not  so  bad,  but  in 
the  winter  how  I  tire  of  the  gray  skies,  the  endless 
drizzling  rain.  Oh !"  She  shrank  back  into  the 
shadow  of  a  doorway,  clutching  at  Durham's  arm. 
"Don't  let  Ah  Fu  see  me." 

"Ah  Fu?  Who  is  Ah  Fu?"  asked  Durham,  also 
drawing  back  as  a  furtive  figure  went  slinking  down 
the  opposite  side  of  the  street. 

"My  father's  servant.  He  let  you  in  this  morn- 
ing." 

"And  why  must  he  not  see  you?" 

"I  don't  trust  him.  I  think  he  tells  my  father 
things." 

"What  is  it  that  he  carries  in  his  hand?" 


30  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"A  birdcage,  I  expect." 

"A  birdcage?" 

"Yes!" 

He  caught  the  gleam  of  her  eyes  as  she  looked  up 
at  him  out  of  the  shadow. 

"Is  he,  then,  a  bird-fancier?" 

"No,  no,  I  can't  explain  because  I  don't  understand 
myself.  But  Ah  Fu  goes  to  a  place  in  Shadwell  reg- 
ularly and  buys  young  birds,  always  very  young  ones 
and  very  little  ones." 

"For  what  or  for  whom?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Have  you  an  aviary  in  your  house?" 

"No."  ' 

"Do  you  mean  that  they  disappear,  these  purchases 
of  AhFu's?" 

"I  often  see  him  carrying  a  cage  of  young  birds, 
but  we  have  no  birds  in  the  house." 

"How  perfectly  extraordinary!"  muttered  Durham. 

"I  distrust  Ah  Fu,"  whispered  the  girl.  "I  am 
glad  he  did  not  see  me  with  you." 

"Young  birds,"  murmured  Durham  absently. 
"What  kind  of  young  birds?  Any  particular  breed?" 

"No;  canaries,  linnets — all  sorts.  Isn't  it  funny?" 
The  girl  laughed  in  a  childish  way.  "And  now  I 
think  Ah  Fu  will  have  gone  in,  so  I  must  say  good 
night." 

But  when  presently  Detective  Durham  found  him- 
self walking  back  along  West  India  Dock  Road,  his 
mind's  eye  was  set  upon  the  slinking  figure  of  a 
Chinaman  carrying  a  birdcage. 


VI 

A  HINT  OF  INCENSE 

ONE  Chinaman  more  or  less  does  not  make  any 
very  great  difference  to  the  authorities  re- 
sponsible for  maintaining  law  and  order  in 
Limehouse.  Asiatic  settlers  are  at  liberty  to  follow 
their  national  propensities,  and  to  knife  one  another 
within  reason.  This  is  wisdom.  Such  recreations 
are  allowed,  if  not  encouraged,  by  all  wise  rulers  of 
Eastern  peoples. 

"Found  drowned,"  too,  is  a  verdict  which  has 
covered  many  a  dark  mystery  of  old  Thames,  but 
"Found  in  the  river,  death  having  been  due  to  the 
action  of  some  poison  unknown,"  is  a  finding  which 
even  in  the  case  of  a  Chinaman  is  calculated  to  stimu- 
late the  jaded  official  mind. 

New  Scotland  Yard  had  given  Durham  a  roving 
commission,  and  had  been  justified  in  the  fact  that 
the  second  victim,  and  this  time  not  a  Chinaman,  had 
been  found  under  almost  identical  conditions.  The 
link  with  the  establishment  of  Huang  Chow  was  in- 
complete, and  Durham  fully  recognized  that  it  was 
up  to  him  to  make  it  sound  and  incontestable. 

Jim  Poland  was  not  the  only  man  in  the  East  End 
who  knew  that  the  dead  Chinaman  had  been  in 

31 


32  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

negotiation  with  Huang  Chow.  Kerry  knew  it,  and 
had  passed  the  information  on  to  Durham. 

Some  mystery  surrounded  the  life  of  the  old  dealer, 
who  was  said  to  be  a  mandarin  of  high  rank,  but  his 
exact  association  with  the  deaths  first  of  the  China- 
man Pi  Lung,  and  second  of  Cohen,  remained  to  be 
proved.  Certain  critics  have  declared  the  Metro- 
politan detective  service  to  be  obsolete  and  inefficient. 
Kerry,  as  a  potential  superintendent,  resented  these 
criticisms,  and  in  his  protege  Durham,  perceived  a 
member  of  the  new  generation  who  was  likely  in  time 
to  produce  results  calculated  to  remove  this  stigma. 

Durham  recognized  that  a  greater  responsibility 
rested  upon  his  shoulders  than  the  actual  importance 
of  the  case  might  have  indicated;  and  now,  proceed- 
ing warily  along  the  deserted  streets,  he  found  his 
brain  to  be  extraordinarily  active  and  his  imagination 
very  much  alive. 

There  is  a  night  life  in  Limehouse,  as  he  had 
learned,  but  it  is  a  mole  life,  a  subterranean  life,  of 
which  no  sign  appears  above  ground  after  a  certain 
hour.  Nevertheless,  as  he  entered  the  area  which 
harbours  those  strange,  hidden  resorts  the  rumour  of 
which  has  served  to  create  the  glamour  of  China- 
town, he  found  himself  to  be  thinking  of  the  great 
influence  said  to  be  wielded  by  Huang  Chow,  and 
wondering  if  unseen  spies  watched  his  movements. 

Lala  was  Oriental,  and  now,  alone  in  the  night, 
distrust  leapt  into  being  within  him.  He  had  been 
attracted  by  her  and  had  pitied  her.  He  told  himself 
now  that  this  was  because  of  her  dark  beauty  and  the 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HUANG  CHOW    33 

essentially  feminine  appeal  which  she  made.  She  was 
perhaps  a  vampire  of  the  most  dangerous  sort,  one 
who  lured  men  to  strange  deaths  for  some  sinister 
object  beyond  reach  of  a  Western  imagination. 

He  found  himself  doubting  the  success  of  those 
tactics  upon  which,  earlier  in  the  day,  he  had  con- 
gratulated himself.  Perhaps  beneath  the  guise  of 
Hampden,  who  bought  antique  furniture  on  commis- 
sion, those  cunning  old  eyes  beneath  the  horn-rimmed 
spectacles  had  perceived  the  detective  hidden,  or  at 
least  had  marked  subterfuge. 

While  he  could  not  count  Laid  a  conquest — for  he 
had  not  even  attempted  to  make  love  to  her — the  ease 
with  which  he  had  developed  the  acquaintance  now  l= 
afforded  matter  for  suspicion. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  court  communicating  with 
the  establishment  of  Huang  Chow  he  paused,  looking 
cautiously  about  him.  The  men  on  the  Limehouse 
beats  had  been  warned  of  the  investigation  afoot  to- 
night, and  there  was  a  plain-clothes  man  on  point  duty 
at  no  great  distance  away,  although  carefully  hidden, 
so  that  Durham  had  quite  failed  to  detect  his  presence. 

Durham  wore  rough  clothes  and  rubber-soled  shoes ; 
and  now,  as  he  entered  the  court,  he  was  thinking  of 
the  official  report  of  the  police  sergeant  who,  not  so 
many  hours  before,  had  paid  a  visit  to  the  house  of 
Huang  Chow  in  order  to  question  him  respecting  his 
knowledge  of  the  dead  man  Cohen,  and  to  learn  when 
last  he  had  seen  him. 

Old  Huang,  who  had  received  his  caller  in  the  large 
room  upstairs,  the  room  which  boasted  the  presence 


34  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

of  the  writing-dais,  had  exhibited  no  trace  of  con- 
fusion, assuring  the  sergeant  that  he  had  not  seen  the 
man  Cohen  for  several  days.  Cohen  had  come  to 
him  with  an  American  introduction,  which  he,  Huang, 
believed  to  be  forged,  and  had  wanted  him  to  under- 
take a  shady  agency,  respecting  the  details  of  which 
he  remained  peculiarly  reticent.  In  short,  nothing 
had  been  gained  by  this  official  interrogation,  and 
Huang  blandly  denied  any  knowledge  of  an  attempted 
burglary  of  his  establishment. 

"What  have  I  to  lose?"  he  had  asked  the  inquirer. 
"A  lot  of  old  lumber  which  I  have  accumulated  during 
many  years,  and  a  reputation  for  being  wealthy,  due 
to  my  lonely  habits  and  to  the  ignorance  of  those  who 
live  around  me." 

Durham,  mentally  reviewing  the  words  of  the 
report,  reconstructed  the  scene  in  his  mind;  and  now, 
having  come  to  the  end  of  the  lane  where  the  iron 
post  rested,  he  stood  staring  up  at  a  place  in  the 
ancient  wall  where  several  bricks  had  decayed,  and 
where  it  was  possible,  according  to  the  statement  of 
the  man  Poland,  to  climb  up  on  to  a  piece  of  sloping 
roof,  and  thence  gain  the  skylight  through  which 
Cohen  had  obtained  admittance  on  the  night  of  his 
death. 

He  made  sure  that  his  automatic  pistol  was  in  his 
pocket,  questioned  the  dull  sounds  of  the  riverside  for 
a  moment,  looking  about  him  anxiously,  and  then, 
using  the  leaning  post  as  a  stepping-stone,  he  suc- 
ceeded in  wedging  his  foot  into  a  crevice  in  the  wall. 
By  the  exercise  of  some  agility  he  scrambled  up  to  the 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HUANG  CHOW  35 

top,  and  presently  found  himself  lying  upon  a  sloping 
roof. 

The  skylight  remained  well  out  of  reach,  but  his 
rubber-soled  shoes  enabled  him  to  creep  up  the  slates 
until  he  could  grasp  the  framework  with  his  hands. 
Presently  he  found  himself  perched  upon  the  trap 
which,  if  his  information  could  be  relied  upon,  pos- 
sessed no  fastener,  or  one  so  faulty  that  the  trap  could 
be  raised  by  means  of  a  brad-awl.  He  carried  one  in 
his  pocket,  and.  screwing  it  into  the  framework,  he 
lifted  it  cautiously,  making  very  little  noise. 

The  trap  opened,  and  up  to  his  nostrils  there  stole 
a  queer,  indefinable  odour,  partly  that  which  belongs 
to  old  Oriental  furniture  and  stuffs,  but  having 
mingled  with  it  a  hint  of  incense  and  of  something 
else  not  so  easily  named.  He  recognized  the  smell 
of  that  strange  store-room,  which,  as  Mr.  Hampden, 
he  had  recently  visited. 

For  one  moment  he  thought  he  could  detect  the 
distant  note  of  a  bell.  But,  listening,  he  heard  noth- 
ing, and  was  reassured. 

He  rested  the  trap  back  against  the  frame,  and 
shone  the  ray  of  an  electric  torch  down  into  the  dark- 
ness beneath  him.  The  light  fell  upon  the  top  of  a 
low  carven  table,  dragon-legged  and  gilded.  Upon 
it  rested  the  model  pagoda  constructed  of  human  teeth, 
and  there  was  something  in  this  discovery  which  made 
Durham  feel  inclined  to  shudder.  However,  the  im- 
pulse was  only  a  passing  one. 

He  measured  the  distance  with  his  eye.  The  little 
table  stood  beside  a  deep  divan,  and  he  saw  that  with 


36  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

care  it  would  be  possible  to  drop  upon  this  divati 
without  making  much  noise.  He  calculated  its  exact 
position  before  replacing  the  torch  in  his  pocket,  and 
then,  resting  back  against  one  side  of  the  frame,  he 
clutched  the  other  with  his  hands.  He  wriggled 
gradually  down  until  further  purchase  became  impos- 
sible. He  then  let  himself  drop,  and  swung  for  a 
moment  by  his  hands  before  releasing  his  hold. 

He  fell,  as  he  had  calculated,  upon  the  divan.  It 
creaked  ominously.  Catching  his  foot  in  the  cushions, 
he  stumbled  and  lay  forward  for  a  moment  upon  his 
face,  listening  intently. 

The  room  was  very  hot  but  nothing  stirred. 


VII 

THE  SCUFFLING  SOUND 

DETECTIVE  DURHAM,  as  he  lay  there  in- 
haling  the  peculiar  perfume  of  the  place, 
recognized  that  he  had  put  himself  outside 
the  pale  of  official  protection,  and  was  become  tech- 
nically a  burglar. 

He  wondered  if  Chief  Inspector  Kerry  would  have 
approved;  but  he  had  outlined  this  plan  of  investiga- 
tion for  himself,  and  knew  well  that,  if  it  were  crowned 
by  success,  the  end  would  be  regarded  as  having 
justified  the  means.  On  the  other  hand,  in  the  event 
of  detention  he  must  personally  bear  the  consequences 
of  such  irregular  behaviour.  He  knew  well,  how- 
ever, that  his  celebrated  superior  had  achieved  promo- 
tion by  methods  at  least  as  irregular;  and  he  knew 
that  if  he  could  but  obtain  evidence  to  account  for 
the  death  of  the  man  Cohen,  and  of  the  Chinaman 
Pi  Lung,  who  had  preceded  him  by  the  same  mys- 
terious path,  the  way  of  his  obtaining  it  would  not  be 
too  closely  questioned. 

He  was  an  ambitious  man,  and  consequently  one 
who  took  big  chances.  Nothing  disturbed  the  silence; 
he  sat  upon  the  divan  and  again  pressed  the  button 
of  his  torch,  shining  it  all  about  the  low-beamed  apart- 

37 


3  8  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

ment  and  peering  curiously  into  the  weird  shadows  of 
the  place.  He  calculated  he  was  now  in  the  position 
which  Cohen  had  occupied  during  the  last  moments  of 
his  life,  and  a  sense  of  the  uncanny  touched  him  coldly. 

As  he  thought  of  the  unnatural  screams  spoken  of 
by  Poland,  some  strange  instinct  prompted  him  to  curl 
up  his  feet  upon  the  divan  again,  as  though  a  secret 
menace  crawled  upon  the  floor  amid  its  many  rugs 
and  carpets. 

He  must  now  endeavour  to  reconstruct  the  plan 
upon  which  the  American  cracksman  had  operated. 
Poland  had  a  persistent  belief  that  Cohen  had  known 
where  the  fabled  hoard  of  Huang  Chow  was  con- 
cealed. 

Durham  began  a  deliberate  inspection  of  the  place. 
He  thought  it  unlikely  that  a  wily  old  Chinaman,  as- 
suming that  he  possessed  hidden  wealth,  would  keep  it 
in  so  accessible  a  spot  as  this.  It  was  far  more  probable 
that  he  had  a  fireproof  safe  in  the  room  upstairs,  per- 
haps built  into  the  wall.  Yet,  according  to  Poland's 
account,  it  was  in  this  room  and  not  in  any  other  that 
death  came  to  Diamond  Fred. 

The  wall-hangings  first  engaged  Durham's  atten- 
tion. He  moved  them  aside  systematically,  one  after 
another,  seeking  for  any  hiding-place,  but  failing  to 
find  one.  The  door  communicating  with  the  outer 
office  he  found  to  be  locked,  but  he  did  not  believe 
for  a  moment  that  the  office  would  be  worthy  of 
inspection. 

There  were  cases  containing  jewelled  weapons  and 
cups  and  goblets  inlaid  with  precious  stones,  but  none 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HUANG  CHOW  39 

of  these  seemed  to  have  been  tampered  with,  and  all 
were  locked,  as  was  the  big  cabinet  filled  with  snuff 
bottles. 

Many  of  the  larger  pieces  about  the  place  contained 
drawers  and  cupboards,  and  these  he  systematically 
opened  one  after  another,  without  making  any  dis- 
covery of  note.  Some  of  the  cupboards  contained 
broken  pieces  of  crockery,  and  more  or  less  damaged 
curios  of  one  kind  and  another,  but  none  of  them  gave 
him  thevclue  for  which  he  was  seeking. 

He  examined  the  couch  upon  which  Huang  Chow 
had  been  seated  when  first  he  had  met  him,  but 
although  he  searched  it  scientifically  he  was  rewarded 
by  no  discovery. 

A  very  fusty  and  unpleasant  smell  was  more  notice- 
able at  this  point  than  elsewhere  in  the  room,  and  he 
found  himself  staring  speculatively  up  the  wide,  car- 
peted stairs.  Next  he  turned  his  attention  to  the 
lacquered  coffin  which  occupied  the  corresponding 
recess  to  that  filled  by  the  couch.  It  was  an  extra- 
ordinarily ornate  piece  of  lacquer  work  and  probably 
of  great  value. 

The  lid  appeared  to  be  screwed  on,  and  Durham 
stood  staring  at  the  thing,  half  revolted  'and  half  fas- 
cinated. He  failed  to  discover  any  means  of  opening 
it,  however,  and  when  he  tried  to  move  it  bodily  found 
it  very  heavy.  He  came  to  the  conclusion  that  all  the 
portable  valuables  were  contained  in  locked  cases  or 
cabinets,  and  out  of  this  discovery  grew  an  idea. 

The  case  containing  the  snuff  bottles  stood  too  close 
to  the  wall  to  enable  him  to  test  his  new  theory,  but  a 


40  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

square  case  near  the  office  door,  in  which  were  five  or 
six  small  but  almost  priceless  pieces  of  porcelain, 
afforded  the  very  evidence  for  which  he  was  looking. 

Thin  electric  flex  descended  from  somewhere  inside 
the  case  down  one  of  the  legs  of  the  pedestal,  and 
through  a  neatly  drilled  hole  in  the  floor,  evidently 
placed  there  to  accommodate  it. 

"Burglar  alarm!"  he  muttered. 

The  opening  of  this  case,  and  doubtless  of  any  of 
the  others,  would  set  alarm  bells  ringing.  This  was 
not  an  unimportant  discovery,  but  it  brought  him  very 
little  nearer  to  a  solution  of  the  chief  problem  which 
engaged  his  mind.  Assuming  that  Cohen  had  opened 
one  of  the  cases  and  had  alarmed  old  Huang  Chow, 
what  steps  had  the  latter  taken  to  deal  with  the  in- 
truder which  had  resulted  in  so  ghastly  a  death?  And 
how  had  he  disposed  of  the  body? 

As  Durham  stood  there  musing  and  looking  down 
through  the  plate-glass  at  the  delicate  porcelain  be- 
neath, a  faint  sound  intruded  itself  upon  the  stillness. 
It  gave  him  another  idea.  Part  of  the  floor  was 
stone-paved,  but  part  was  wood. 

Upon  a  portion  of  the  latter,  where  no  carpet  rested, 
Durham  dropped  flat,  pressing  his  ear  to  the  floor. 

A  faint  swishing  and  trickling  sound  was  percept- 
ible from  some  place  beneath. 

"Ah!"  he  murmured. 

Remembering  that  the  premises  almost  overhung 
the  Thames,  he  divined  that  the  cellars  were  flooded  at 
high  tide,  or  that  there  was  some  kind  of  drain  or 
cutting  running  underneath  the  house. 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HUANG  CHOW  41 

He  stood  up  again,  listening  intently  for  any  sound 
within  the  building.  He  thought  he  had  detected 
something,  and  now,  as  he  stood  there  alert,  he  heard 
it  again — a  faint  scuffling,  which  might  have  been 
occasioned  by  rats  or  even  mice,  but  which,  in  some 
subtle  and  very  unpleasant  way,  did  not  suggest  the 
movements  of  these  familiar  rodents. 

Even  as  he  perceived  it,  it  ceased,  leaving  him 
wondering,  and  uncomfortably  conscious  of  a  sudden 
dread  of  his  surroundings.  He  wondered  in  what 
part  of  this  mysterious  house  Lala  resided,  and  recog- 
nizing that  his  departure  must  leave  traces,  he  deter- 
mined to  prosecute  his  inquiries  as  far  as  possible, 
since  another  opportunity  might  not  arise. 

He  was  baffled  but  still  hopeful.  Something  there 
was  in  the  smell  of  the  place  which  threatened  to  un- 
nerve him;  or  perhaps  in  its  silence,  which  remained 
quite  unbroken  save  when,  by  acute  listening,  one 
detected  the  dripping  of  water. 

That  unexplained  scuffling  sound,  too,  which  he  had 
failed  to  trace  or  identify,  lingered  in  his  memory  in- 
sistently, and  for  some  reason  contained  the  elements 
of  fear. 

He  crossed  the  room  and  began  softly  to  mount 
the  stair.  It  creaked  only  slightly,  and  the  door  at 
the  top  proved  to  be  ajar.  He  peeped  in,  to  find  the 
place  empty.  It  was  a  typical  Chinese  apartment, 
containing  very  little  furniture,  the  raised  desk  being 
the  most  noticeable  item,  except  for  a  small  shrine 
which  faced  it  on  the  other  side  of  the  room. 

He  mounted  the  steps  to  the  desk  and  inspected  a 


42  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

number  of  loose  papers  which  lay  upon  it.  Without 
exception  they  were  written  in  Chinese.  A  sort  of 
large,  dull  white  blotting-pad  lay  upon  the  table,  but 
its  surface  was  smooth  and  glossy. 

Over  it  was  suspended  what  looked  like  a  lamp- 
shade, but  on  inspection  it  proved  to  contain  no  lamp, 
but  to  communicate,  by  a  sort  of  funnel,  with  the 
ceiling  above. 

At  this  contrivance  Durham  stared  long  and  curi- 
ously, but  without  coming  to  any  conclusion  respecting 
its  purpose.  He  might  have  investigated  further,  but 
he  became  aware  of  a  dull  and  regular  sound  in  the 
room  behind  him. 

He  turned  in  a  flash,  staring  in  the  direction  of  two 
curtains  draped  before  what  he  supposed  to  be  a  door. 

On  tiptoe  he  crossed  and  gently  drew  the  curtains 
aside. 

He  looked  into  a  small,  cell-like  room,  lighted  by 
one  window,  where  upon  a  low  bed  Huang  Chow  lay 
sleeping  peacefully ! 

Durham  almost  held  his  breath;  then,  withdrawing 
as  quietly  as  he  had  approached,  he  descended  the 
stair.  At  the  foot  his  attention  was  again  arrested 
by  the  faint  scuffling  sound.  It  ceased  as  suddenly  as 
it  had  begun,  leaving  him  wondering  and  conscious 
anew  of  a  chill  of  apprehension. 

He  had  already  made  his  plans  for  departure,  but 
knew  that  they  must  leave  evidence,  when  discovered, 
of  his  visit. 

A  large  and  solid  table  stood  near  the  divan,  and 
he  moved  this  immediately  under  the  trap.  Upon  it 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HUANG  CHOW  43 

he  laid  a  leopard-skin  to  deaden  any  noise  he  might 
make,  and  then  upon  the  leopard-skin  he  set  a  massive 
chair:  he  replaced  his  torch  in  his  pocket  and  drew 
himself  up  on  to  the  roof  again.  Reclosing  the  trap 
by  means  of  the  awl  which  he  had  screwed  into  it,  he 
removed  the  awl  and  placed  it  in  his  pocket. 

Then,    sliding   gently   down   the    sloping   roof,    he 
dropped  back  into  the  deserted  court. 


VIII 

A   CAGE  OF  BIRDS 

NO,"  SAID  Lala,  "we  have  never  had  robbers 
in  the  house."  She  looked  up  at  Durham 
naively.  "You  are  not  a  thief,  are  you?" 
she  asked. 

"No,  I  assure  you  I  am  not,"  he  answered,  and 
felt  himself  flushing  to  the  roots  of  his  hair. 

They  were  seated  in  a  teashop  patronized  by  the 
workers  of  the  district;  and  as  Durham,  his  elbows 
resting  on  the  marble-topped  table,  looked  into  the 
dark  eyes  of  his  companion,  he  told  himself  again  that 
whatever  might  be  the  secrets  of  old  Huang  Chow, 
his  daughter  did  not  share  them. 

The  Chinaman  had  made  no  report  to  the  authori- 
ties, although  the  piled  up  furniture  beneath  the  sky- 
light must  have  afforded  conclusive  evidence  that  a 
burglarious  entry  had  been  made  into  the  premises. 

"I  should  feel  very  nervous,"  Durham  declared, 
"with  all  those  valuables  in  the  house." 

"I  feel  nervous  about  my  father,"  the  girl  an- 
swered in  a  low  voice.  "His  room  opens  out  of  the 
warehouse,  but  mine  is  shut  away  in  another  part  of 
the  building.  And  Ah  Fu  sleeps  behind  the  office." 

"Were  you   not   afraid  when  you   suspected   that 

44 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HUANG  CHOW  45 

Cohen  was  a  burglar?  You  told  me  yourself  that  you 
did  suspect  him." 

"Yes,  I  spoke  to  my  father  about  it." 

"And  what  did  he  say?" 

"Oh" — she  shrugged  her  shoulders — "he  just 
smiled  and  told  me  not  to  worry." 

"And  that  was  the  last  you  heard  about  the 
matter?" 

"Yes,  until  you  told  me  he  was  dead." 

Again  he  questioned  the  dark  eyes  and  again  was 
baffled.  He  felt  tempted,  and  not  for  the  first  time, 
to  throw  up  the  case.  After  all,  it  rested  upon  very 
slender  data — the  mysterious  death  of  a  Chinaman 
whose  history  was  unknown  and  the  story  of  a  crook 
whose  word  was  worth  nothing. 

Finally  he  asked  himself,  as  he  had  asked  himself 
before,  what  did  it  matter?  If  old  Huang  Chow  had 
disposed  of  these  people  in  some  strange  manner,  they 
had  sought  to  rob  him.  The  morality  of  the  case  was 
complicated  and  obscure,  and  more  and  more  he  was 
falling  under  the  spell  of  Lala's  dark  eyes. 

But  always  it  was  his  professional  pride  which 
came  to  the  rescue.  Murder  had  been  done,  whether 
justifiably  or  otherwise,  and  to  him  had  been  entrusted 
the  discovery  of  the  murderer.  It  seemed  that  failure 
was  to  be  his  lot,  for  if  Lala  knew  anything  she  was 
a  most  consummate  actress,  and  if  she  did  not,  his  last 
hope  of  information  was  gone. 

He  would  have  liked  nothing  better  than  to  be  rid 
of  the  affair,  provided  he  could  throw  up  the  case 
with  a  clear  conscience.  But  when  presently  he  parted 


46  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

from  the  attractive  Eurasian,  and  watched  her  slim 
figure  as,  turning,  she  waved  her  hand  and  disappeared 
round  a  corner,  he  knew  that  rest  was  not  for  him. 

He  had  discovered  the  emporium  of  a  Shadwell 
live-stock  dealer  with  whom  Ah  Fu  had  a  standing 
order  for  newly  fledged  birds  of  all  descriptions. 
Purchases  apparently  were  always  made  after  dusk, 
and  Ah  Fu  with  his  birdcage  was  due  that  evening. 

A  scheme  having  suggested  itself  to  Durham,  he 
now  proceeded  to  put  it  into  execution,  so  that  when 
dusk  came,  and  Ah  Fu,  carrying  an  empty  birdcage, 
set  out  from  the  house  of  Huang  Chow,  a  very  dirty- 
looking  loafer  passed  the  corner  of  the  street  at  about 
the  time  that  the  Chinaman  came  slinking  out. 

Durham  had  mentally  calculated  that  Ah  Fu  would 
be  gone  about  half  an  hour  upon  his  mysterious  errand, 
but  the  Chinaman  travelled  faster  than  he  had  calcu- 
lated. 

Just  as  he  was  about  to  climb  up  once  more  on  to 
the  sloping  roof,  he  heard  the  pattering  footsteps 
returning  to  the  courtyard,  although  rather  less  than 
twenty  minutes  had  elapsed  since  the  man  had  set  out. 

Durham  darted  round  the  corner  and  waited  until 
he  heard  the  door  closed;  then,  returning,  he  scram- 
bled up  on  to  the  roof,  creeping  forward  until  he  was 
lying  looking  down  through  the  skylight  into  the 
darkened  room  below. 

For  ten  minutes  or  more  he  waited,  until  he  began 
to  feel  cramped  and  uncomfortable.  Then  that  hap- 
pened which  he  had  hoped  and  anticipated  would 
happen.  The  place  beneath  became  illuminated,  not 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HUANG  CHOW  47 

fully,  by  means  of  the  hanging  lamps,  but  dimly  so 
that  distorted  shadows  were  cast  about  the  floor. 
Someone  had  entered  carrying  a  lantern. 

Durham's  view-point  limited  his  area  of  vision,  but 
presently,  as  the  light  came  nearer  and  nearer,  he 
discerned  Ah  Fu,  carrying  a  lantern  in  one  hand  and 
a  birdcage  in  the  other.  He  could  hear  nothing,  for 
the  trap  fitted  well  and  the  glass  was  thick.  More- 
over, it  was  very  dirty.  He  was  afraid,  however,  to 
attempt  to  clean  a  space. 

Ah  Fu  apparently  had  set  the  lantern  upon  a  table, 
and  into  the  radius  of  its  light  there  presently  moved 
a  stooping  figure.  Durham  recognized  Huang  Chow, 
and  felt  his  heart  beats  increasing  in  rapidity. 

Clutching  the  framework  of  the  trap  with  his  hands, 
he  moved  his  head  cautiously,  so  that  presently  he  was 
enabled  to  see  the  two  Chinamen.  They  were  stand- 
ing beside  the  lacquered  coffin  upon  its  dragon-legged 
pedestal.  Durham  stifled  an  exclamation. 

One  end  of  the  ornate  sarcophagus  had  been  opened 
in  some  way ! 

Now,  to  the  watcher's  unbounded  astonishment, 
Ah  Fu  placed  the  birdcage  in  the  opening,  and  appar- 
ently reclosed  the  trap  in  the  end  of  the  coffin.  He 
made  other  manipulations  with  his  bony  yellow  fingers, 
which  Durham  failed  to  comprehend.  Finally  the 
birdcage  was  withdrawn  again,  and  as  it  was  passed 
before  the  light  of  the  lantern  he  saw  that  it  was 
empty,  whereas  previously  it  had  contained  a  number 
of  tiny  birds  all  huddled  up  together ! 

The  light  gleamed  upon  the  spectacles  of  Huang 


48  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

Chow.  Watching  him,  Durham  saw  him  take  out 
from  a  hidden  drawer  in  the  pedestal  a  long,  slender 
key,  insert  it  in  a  lock  concealed  by  the  ornate  carv- 
ing, and  then  slightly  raise  the  lid  which  had  so 
recently  defied  his  own  efforts. 

He  raised  it  only  a  few  inches,  and  then,  taking  up 
the  lantern,  peered  into  the  interior  of  the  coffin,  at 
the  same  time  waving  his  hand  in  dismissal  to  Ah  Fu. 
For  a  while  he  stood  there,  peering  into  the  interior, 
and  then,  lowering  the  lid  again,  he  relocked  this 
gruesome  receptacle  and,  lantern  in  hand,  began  to 
mount  the  stair. 

Durham  inhaled  deeply.  He  realized  that  during 
the  last  few  seconds  he  had  been  holding  his  breath. 
Now,  as  he  began  to  creep  back  down  the  slope,  he 
discovered  that  his  hands  were  shaking. 

He  dropped  down  into  the  court  again,  and  for 
several  minutes  leaned  against  the  wall,  endeavouring 
to  reason  out  an  explanation  of  what  he  had  seen,  and 
in  a  measure  to  regain  his  composure. 

There  was  a  horror  underlying  it  all  which  he  was 
half  afraid  to  face.  But  the  real  clue  to  the  mystery 
still  eluded  him. 

Whether  what  he  had  witnessed  were  some  kind 
of  obscene  ceremony,  or  whether  an  explanation  more 
vile  must  be  sought,  he  remained  undetermined.  He 
must  repeat  his  exploit,  if  possible,  and  once  more 
gain  access  to  the  room  which  contained  the  lacquer 
coffin. 

But  the  adventure  was  very  distasteful.  He  rec- 
ollected the  smell  of  the  place,  and  the  memory 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HUANG  CHOW  49 

brought  with  it  a  sense  of  nausea.  He  thought  of 
Laid  Huang,  and  his  ideas  became  grotesque  and 
chaotic.  Yet  the  solution  of  the  mystery  lay  at  last 
within  his  grasp,  and  to  the  zest  of  the  investigator 
everything  else  became  subjugated. 

He  walked  slowly  away,  silent  in  his  rubber-soled 
shoes. 


IX 

THE  PICTURE  ON  THE  PAD 

ELA  HUANG  lay  listening  to  the  vague  sounds 
which  disturbed  the  silence  of  the  night.  Pres- 
ently her  thoughts  made  her  sigh  wearily. 
During  the  lifetime  of  her  mother,  who  had  died  while 
Lala  was  yet  a  little  girl,  life  had  been  different  and  so 
much  brighter. 

She  imagined  that  in  the  mingled  sounds  of  dock 
and  river  which  came  to  her  she  could  hear  the  roar 
of  surf  upon  a  golden  beach.  The  stuffy  air  of  Lime- 
house  took  on  the  hot  fragrance  of  a  tropic  island, 
and  she  sighed  again,  but  this  time  rapturously,  for 
in  spirit  she  was  a  child  once  more,  lulled  by  the 
voice  of  the  great  Pacific. 

Young  as  she  was,  the  death  of  her  mother  had 
been  a  blow  from  which  it  had  taken  her  several  years 
to  recover.  Then  had  commenced  those  long  travels 
with  her  father,  from  port  to  port,  from  ocean  to 
ocean,  sometimes  settling  awhile,  but  ever  moving 
onward,  onward. 

He  had  had  her  educated  after  a  fashion,  and  his 
love  for  her  she  did  not  doubt.  But  her  mother's 
blood  spoke  more  strongly  than  that  part  of  her  which 
was  Chinese,  and  there  was  softness  and  a  delicious 

50 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HUANG  CHOW  51 

languor  in  her  nature  which  her  father  did  not  seem 
to  understand,  and  of  which  he  did  not  appear  to 
approve. 

She  knew  that  he  was  wealthy.  She  knew  that  his 
ways  were  not  straight  ways,  although  that  part  of  his 
business  to  which  he  had  admitted  her  as  an  assistant, 
and  an  able  one,  was  legitimate  enough,  or  so  it 
seemed. 

Consignments  of  goods  arrived  at  strange  hours 
of  the  night  at  the  establishment  in  Limehouse,  and 
from  this  side  of  her  father's  transactions  she  was 
barred.  The  big  double  doors  opening  on  the  little 
courtyard  would  be  opened  by  Ah  Fu,  and  packing 
cases  of  varying  sizes  be  taken  in.  Sometimes  the 
sounds  of  these  activities  would  reach  her  in  her 
room  in  a  distant  part  of  the  house;  but  only  in  the 
morning  would  she  recognize  their  significance,  when 
in  the  warehouse  she  would  discover  that  some  new 
and  choice  pieces  had  arrived. 

She  wondered  with  what  object  her  father  accumu- 
lated wealth,  and  hoped,  against  the  promptings  of 
her  common  sense,  that  he  designed  to  return  East, 
there  to  seek  a  retirement  amidst  the  familiar  and 
the  beautiful  things  of  the  Orient  which  belonged  to 
Lala's  dream  of  heaven. 

Stories  about  her  father  often  reached  her  ears. 
She  knew  that  he  had  held  high  rank  in  China  before 
she  had  been  born;  but  that  he  had  sacrificed  his 
rights  in  some  way  had  always  been  her  theory.  She 
had  been  too  young  to  understand  the  stories  which 
her  mother  had  told  her  sometimes;  but  that  there 


52  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

were  traits  in  the  character  of  Huang  Chow  which  it 
was  not  good  for  his  daughter  to  know  she  appreciated 
and  accepted  as  a  secret  sorrow. 

He  allowed  her  all  the  freedom  to  which  her  educa- 
tion entitled  her.  Her  life  was  that  of  a  European 
and  not  of  an  Oriental  woman.  She  loved  him  in  a 
way,  but  also  feared  him.  She  feared  the  dark  and 
cruel  side  of  his  character,  of  which,  at  various 
periods  during  their  life  together,  she  had  had  terri- 
fying glimpses. 

She  had  decided  that  cruelty  was  his  vice.  In 
what  way  he  gratified  it  she  had  never  learned,  nor 
did  she  desire  to  do  so.  There  were  periodical  visits 
from  the  police,  but  she  had  learned  long  ago  that  her 
father  wras  too  clever  to  place  himself  within  reach  of 
the  law. 

However  crooked  one  part  of  his  business  methods 
might  be,  his  dealings  with  his  clients  were  straight 
enough,  so  that  no  one  had  any  object  in  betraying 
him;  and  the  legality  or  otherwise  of  his  foreign  re- 
lations evidently  afforded  no  case  against  him  upon 
which  the  authorities  could  act,  or  upon  which  they 
cared  to  act. 

In  America  it  had  been  graft  which  had  protected 
him.  She  had  learned  this  accidentally,  but  never 
knew  whether  he  bought  his  immunity  in  the  same  way 
in  London. 

Some  of  the  rumours  which  reached  her  were  terri- 
fying. Latterly  s»he  had  met  many  strange  glances  in 
her  comings  and  goings  about  Limehouse.  This 
peculiar  atmosphere  had  always  preceded  the  break-up 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HUANG  CHOW  53 

of  every  home  which  they  had  shared.  She  divined 
the  fact  that  in  some  way  Huang  Chow  had  outstayed 
his  welcome  in  Chinatown,  London.  Where  their  next 
resting-place  would  be  she  could  not  imagine,  but  she 
prayed  that  it  might  be  in  some  more  sunny  clime. 

She  found  herself  to  be  thinking  over  much  of  John 
Hampden.  His  bona  fides  were  not  above  suspicion, 
but  she  could  scarcely  expect  to  meet  a  really  white 
man  in  such  an  environment. 

Lala  would  have  liked  to  think  that  he  was  white, 
but  could  not  force  herself  to  do  so.  She  would  have 
liked  to  think  that  he  sought  her  company  because  she 
appealed  to  him  personally;  but  she  had  detected  the 
fact  that  another  motive  underlay  his  attentions.  She 
wondered  if  he  could  be  another  of  those  moths  drawn 
by  the  light  of  that  fabled  wealth  of  her  father. 

It  was  curious,  she  reflected,  that  Huang  Chow 
never  checked — indeed,  openly  countenanced — her 
friendship  with  the  many  chance  acquaintances  she 
had  made,  even  when  her  own  instincts  told  her  that 
the  men  were  crooked;  so  that,  knowing  the  acumen 
of  her  father,  she  was  well  aware  that  he  must  know 
it  too. 

Several  of  these  pseudo  lovers  of  hers  had  died. 
It  was  a  point  which  often  occurred  to  her  mind,  but 
upon  which  she  did  not  care  to  dwell  even  now.  But 
John  Hampden — John  Hampden  was  different.  He 
was  not  wholly  sincere.  She  sighed  wearily.  But 
nevertheless  he  was  not  like  some  of  the  others. 

She  started  up  in  bed,  seized  with  a  sudden  dread- 
ful idea.  He  was  a  detective! 


54  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

She  understood  now  why  she  had  found  so  much 
that  was  white  in  him,  but  so  much  that  was  false. 
His  presence  seemed  to  be  very  near  her.  Something 
caressing  in  his  voice  echoed  in  her  mind.  She  found 
herself  to  be  listening  to  the  muted  sounds  of  Lime- 
house  and  of  the  waterway  which  flowed  so  close 
beside  her. 

That  old  longing  for  the  home  of  her  childhood 
returned  tenfold,  and  tears  began  to  trickle  down  her 
cheeks.  She  was  falling  in  love  with  this  man  whose 
object  was  her  father's  ruin.  A  cold  terror  clutched 
at  her  heart.  Even  now,  while  their  friendship  was 
so  new,  so  strange,  there  was  a  query,  a  stark,  terrify- 
ing query,  to  stand  up  before  her. 

If  put  to  the  test,  which  would  she  choose? 

She  was  unable  to  face  that  issue,  and  dropped 
back  upon  her  pillow,  stifling  a  sob. 

Yes,  he  was  a  detective.  In  some  way  her  father 
had  at  last  attracted  the  serious  attention  of  the  law. 
Rumours  of  this  were  flying  round  Chinatown,  to 
which  she  had  not  been  entirely  deaf.  She  thought 
of  a  hundred  questions,  a  hundred  silences,  and  grew 
more  and  more  convinced  of  the  truth. 

What  did  he  mean  to  do?  Before  her  a  ghostly 
company  uprose — the  shadows  of  some  she  had  known 
with  designs  upon  her  father.  John  Hampden's  de- 
sign was  different.  But  might  he  not  join  that  myster- 
ious company?" 

Now  again  she  suddenly  sprang  upright,  this  time 
because  of  a  definite  sound  which  had  reached  her 
ears  from  within  the  house :  a  very  faint,  bell-like 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HUANG  CHOW  55 

tinkling  which  ceased  almost  immediately.  She  had 
heard  it  one  night  before,  and  quite  recently;  indeed, 
on  the  night  before  she  had  met  John  Hampden. 
Cohen — Cohen,  the  Jew,  had  died  that  night! 

She  sprang  lightly  on  to  the  floor,  found  her  slip- 
pers, and  threw  a  silk  kimono  over  her  nightrobe. 
She  tiptoed  cautiously  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 

It  was  at  this  very  moment  that  old  Huang  Chow, 
asleep  in  his  cell-like  apartment,  was  aroused  by  the 
tinkling  of  a  bell  set  immediately  above  his  head.  He 
awoke  instantly,  raised  his  hand  and  stopped  the  bell. 
His  expression,  could  anyone  have  been  present  to  see 
it,  was  a  thing  unpleasant  to  behold.  Triumph  was 
in  it,  and  cunning  cruelty. 

His  long  yellow  fingers  reached  out  for  his  horn- 
rimmed spectacles  which  lay  upon  a  little  table  beside 
him.  Adjusting  them,  he  pulled  the  curtains  aside 
and  shuffled  silently  across  the  large  room. 

Mounting  the  steps  to  the  raised  writing-table,  he 
rested  his  elbows  upon  it,  and  peered  down  at  that 
curious  blotting-pad  which  had  so  provoked  the  cur- 
iosity of  Durham.  Could  Durham  have  seen  it  now 
the  mystery  must  have  been  solved.  It  was  an  in- 
genious camera  obscura  apparatus,  and  dimly  depicted 
upon  its  surface  appeared  a  reproduction  of  part  of 
the  storehouse  beneath !  The  part  of  it  which  was 
visible  was  that  touched  by  the  light  of  an  electric 
torch,  carried  by  a  man  crossing  the  floor  in  the 
direction  of  the  lacquered  coffin  upon  the  gilded 
pedestal! 

Old  Huang  Chow  chuckled  silently,  and  his  yellow 


56  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

fingers  clutched  the  table  edge  as  he  moved  to  peer 
more  closely  into  the  picture. 

"Poor  fool!"  he  whispered  in  Chinese.  "Poor 
fool!" 

It  was  the  man  who  had  come  with  the  introduction 
from  Mr.  Isaacs — a  new  impostor  who  sought  to  rob 
him,  who  sought  to  obtain  information  from  his 
daughter,  who  had  examined  his  premises  last  night, 
and  had  even  penetrated  upstairs,  so  that  he,  old 
Huang  Chow,  had  been  compelled  to  disconnect  the 
apparatus  and  to  feign  sleep  under  the  scrutiny  of  the 
intruder. 

To-night  it  would  be  otherwise.  To-night  it  would 
be  otherwise. 


X 

THE  LACQUERED  COFFIN 

DURHAM  gently  raised  the  trap  in  the  roof  of 
Huang  Chow's  treasure-house.     He  was  pre- 
pared for  snares  and  pitfalls.     No  sane  man, 
on  the  evidence  which  he,  Durham,  had  been  compelled 
to  leave  behind,  would  have  neglected  to  fasten  the 
skylight   which    so    obviously    afforded    a    means    of 
entrance  into  his  premises. 

Therefore,  he  was  expected  to  return.  The  devil- 
ish mechanism  was  set  ready  to  receive  him.  But 
the  artist  within  him  demanded  that  he  should  unmask 
the  mystery  with  his  own  hands. 

Moreover,  he  doubted  that  an  official  visit,  even 
now,  would  yield  any  results.  Old  H^ing  Chow  was 
too  cunning  for  that.  If  he  was  to  learn  how  the  man 
Cohen  had  died,  he  must  follow  the  same  path  to  the 
bitter  end.  But  there  were  men  on  duty  round  the 
house,  and  he  believed  that  he  had  placed  them  so 
secretly  as  to  deceive  even  this  master  of  cunning  with 
whom  he  was  dealing. 

He  repeated  his  exploit,  dropping  with  a  dull  thud 
upon  the  cushioned  divan.  Then,  having  lain  there 
listening  awhile,  he  pressed  the  button  of  his  torch, 
and,  standing  up,  crept  across  the  room  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  stairway. 

57 


58  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

Here  he  paused  awhile,  listening  intently.  The 
image  of  Laid  Huang  arose  before  his  mind's  eye  re- 
proachfully, but  he  crushed  the  reproach,  and  ad- 
vanced until  he  stood  beside  the  lacquered  coffin. 

He  remembered  where  the  key  was  hidden,  and, 
stooping,  he  fumbled  for  a  while  and  then  found  it. 
He  was  acutely  conscious  of  an  unnameable  fear.  He 
felt  that  he  was  watched,  and  yet  was  unwilling  to 
believe  it.  The  musty  and  unpleasant  smell  which 
he  had  noticed  before  became  extremely  perceptible. 

He  quietly  sought  for  the  hidden  lock,  and,  presently 
finding  it,  inserted  the  key,  then  paused  awhile.  He 
rested  his  torch  upon  the  cushions  of  the  divan  where 
the  light  shone  directly  upon  the  coffin.  Then,  having 
his  automatic  in  his  left  hand,  he  turned  the  key. 

He  had  expected  now  to  be  able  to  raise  the  lid  as 
he  had  seen  Huang  Chow  do;  but  the  result  was  far 
more  surprising. 

The  lid,  together  with  a  second  framework  of  fine 
netting,  flew  cfm  with  a  resounding  bang;  and  from 
the  interior  of  the  coffin  uprose  a  most  abominable 
stench. 

Durham  started  back  a  step,  and  as  he  did  so 
witnessed  a  sight  which  turned  him  sick  with  horror. 

Out  on  to  the  edge  of  the  coffin  leapt  the  most 
gigantic  spider  which  he  had  ever  seen  in  his  life! 
It  had  a  body  as  big  as  a  man's  fist,  jet  black,  with 
hairy  legs  like  the  legs  of  a  crab  and  a  span  of  a  foot 
or  more! 

A  moment  it  poised  there,  while  he  swayed,  sick 
with  horror.  Then,  unhesitatingly,  it  leapt  for  his  face ! 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HUANG  CHOW  59 

He  groaned  and  fired,  missed  the  horror,  but 
diverted  its  leap,  so  that  it  fell  with  a  sickening  thud 
a  yard  behind  him.  He  turned,  staggering  back 
towards  the  stair,  and  aware  that  a  light  had  shone 
out  from  somewhere. 

A  door  had  been  opened  only  a  few  yards  from 
where  he  stood,  and  there,  framed  in  the  opening,  was 
Lala  Huang,  her  eyes  wide  with  terror  and  her  gaze 
set  upon  him  across  the  room. 

"You !"  she  whispered.     "You !" 

"Go  back!"  he  cried  hoarsely.  "Go  back!  Close 
the  door.  You  don't  understand — close  the 
door!" 

Her  gaze  set  wildly  upon  him,  Laid  staggered  for- 
ward; stopped  dead;  looked  down  at  her  bare  ankle, 
and  then,  seeing  the  thing  which  had  fastened  upon 
her,  uttered  a  piercing  shriek  which  rang  throughout 
the  place. 

At  which  moment  the  floor  slid  away  beneath 
Durham,  and  he  found  himself  falling — falling — and 
then  battling  for  life  in  evil-smelling  water,  amidst 
absolute  darkness. 

Police  whistles  were  skirling  around  the  house  of 
Huang  Chow.  As  the  hidden  men  came  running  into 
the  court: 

"You  heard  the  shot?"  cried  the  sergeant  in  charge. 
"I  warned  him  not  to  go  alone.  Don't  waste  time  on 
the  door.  One  man  stay  on  duty  there;  the  rest  of 
you  follow  me." 

In  a  few  moments,  led  by  the  sergeant,  the  party 
came  dropping  heavily  through  the  skylight  into  the 


60  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

treasure-house  of  Huang  Chow,  in  which  every  lamp 
was  now  alight.  A  trap  was  open  near  the  foot  of 
the  stairs,  and  from  beneath  it  muffled  cries  pro- 
ceeded. In  this  direction  the  sergeant  headed. 
Craning  over  the  trap : 

"Hallo,  Mr.  Durham!"  he  called.   "Mr.  Durham!" 

"Get  a  rope  and  a  ladder,"  came  a  faint  cry  from 
below.  "I  can  just  touch  bottom  with  my  feet  and 
keep  my  head  above  water,  but  the  tide's  coming  in. 
Look  to  the  girl,  though,  first.  Look  to  the  girl!" 

The  sergeant  turned  to  where,  stretched  upon  a 
tiger  skin  before  a  half-open  door,  Lala  Huang  lay, 
scantily  clothed  and  white  as  death. 

Upon  one  of  her  bare  ankles  was  a  discoloured 
mark. 

As  the  sergeant  and  another  of  the  men  stooped 
over  her  a  moaning  sound  drew  their  attention  to  the 
stair,  and  there,  bent  and  tottering  slowly  down,  was 
old  Huang  Chow,  his  eyes  peering  through  the  owl- 
like  glasses  vacantly  across  the  room  to  where  his 
daughter  lay. 

"My  God!"  whispered  the  sergeant,  upon  one  knee 
beside  her.  He  looked  blankly  into  the  face  of  the 
other  man.  "She's  dead!" 

Two  plain-clothes  men  were  busy  knotting  together 
tapestries  and  pieces  of  rare  stuff  with  which  to  draw 
Durham  out  of  the  pit;  but  at  these  old  Huang  Chow 
looked  not  at  all,  but  gropingly  crossed  the  room,  as 
if  he  saw  imperfectly,  or  could  not  believe  what  he 
saw.  At  last  he  reached  the  side  of  the  dead  girl, 
stooped,  touched  her,  laid  a  trembling  yellow  hand 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HUANG  CHOW  61 

over  her  heart,  and  then  stood  up  again,  looking  from 
face  to  face. 

Ignoring  the  mingled  activities  about  him,  he 
crossed  to  the  open  coffin  and  began  to  fumble  amongst 
the  putrefying  mass  of  bones  and  webbing  which  lay 
therein.  Out  from  this  he  presently  drew  an  iron 
coffer. 

Carrying  it  across  the  room  he  opened  the  lid.  It 
was  full  almost  to  the  top  with  uncut  gems  of  every 
variety — diamonds,  rubies,  sapphires,  emeralds,  topaz, 
amethysts,  flashing  greenly,  redly,  whitely.  In  hand- 
fuls  he  grasped  them  and  sprinkled  them  upon  the 
body  of  the  dead  girl. 

"For  you,"  he  crooned  brokenly  in  Chinese.  "They 
were  all  for  you!" 

The  extemporized  rope  had  just  been  lowered  to 
Durham,  when : 

"My  God!"  cried  the  sergeant,  looking  over  Huang 
Chow's  shoulder.  "What's  that?" 

He  had  seen  the  giant  spider,  the  horror  from 
Surinam,  which  the  Chinaman  had  reared  and  fed 
to  guard  his  treasure  and  to  gratify  his  lust  for  the 
strange  and  cruel.  The  insect,  like  everything  else  in 
that  house,  was  unusual,  almost  unique.  It  was  one 
of  the  Black  Soldier  spiders,  by  some  regarded  as  a 
native  myth,  but  actually  existing  'in  Surinam  and 
parts  of  Brazil.  A  member  of  the  family,  Mygale, 
its  sting  was  more  quickly  and  certainly  fatal  than 
that  of  a  rattle-snake.  Its  instinct  was  fearlessly  to 
attack  any  creature,  great  or  small,  which  disturbed  it 
in  its  dark  hiding-place. 


62  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

Now,  with  feverish,  horrible  rapidity  it  was  racing 
up  the  tapestries  on  the  other  side  of  the  room. 

"Merciful  God!"  groaned  the  sergeant. 

Snatching  a  revolver  from  his  pocket  he  fired  shot 
after  shot.  The  third  hit  the  thing  but  did  not  kill  it. 
It  dropped  back  upon  the  floor  and  began  to  crawl 
toward  the  coffin.  The  sergeant  ran  across  and  at 
close  quarters  shot  it  again. 

Red  blood  oozed  out  from  the  hideous  black  body 
and  began  to  form  a  deep  stain  upon  the  carpet. 

When  Durham,  drenched  but  unhurt,  was  hauled 
back  into  the  treasure-house,  he  did  not  speak,  but, 
scrambling  into  the  room  stood — pallid — staring  dully 
at  old  Huang  Chow. 

Huang  Chow,  upon  his  knees  beside  his  daughter, 
was  engaged  in  sprinkling  priceless  jewels  over  her 
still  body,  and  murmuring  in  Chinese : 

"For  you,  for  you,  Laid.     They  were  all  for  you." 


KERRY'S  KID 


KERRY'S  KID 

I 

RED  KERRY  ON  DUTY 

CHIEF  INSPECTOR  KERRY  came  down 
from  the  top  of  a  motor-bus  and  stood  on 
the  sidewalk  for  a  while  gazing  to  right  and 
left  along  Piccadilly.  The  night  was  humid  and 
misty,  now  threatening  fog  and  now  rain.  Many 
travellers  were  abroad  at  this  Christmas  season,  the 
pleasure  seekers  easily  to  be  distinguished  from  those 
whom  business  had  detained  in  town,  and  who  hurried 
toward  their  various  firesides.  The  theatres  were 
disgorging  their  audiences.  Streams  of  lighted  cars 
bore  parties  supperward;  less  pretentious  taxicabs 
formed  links  in  the  chain. 

From  the  little  huddled  crowd  of  more  economical 
theatre-goers  who  waited  at  the  stopping  place  of  the 
motor-buses,  Kerry  detached  himself,  walking  slowly 
along  westward  and  staring  reflectively  about  him. 
Opposite  the  corner  of  Bond  Street  he  stood  still, 
swinging  his  malacca  cane  and  gazing  fixedly  along 
this  narrow  bazaar  street  of  the  Baghdad  of  the  West. 

His  trim,  athletic  figure  was  muffled  in  a  big, 
double-breasted,  woolly  overcoat,  the  collar  turned  up 
about  his  ears.  His  neat  bowler  hat  was  tilted  for- 

6s 


66  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

ward  so  as  to  shade  the  fierce  blue  eyes.  Indeed,  in 
that  imperfect  light,  little  of  the  Chief  Inspector's 
countenance  was  visible  except  his  large,  gleaming 
white  teeth,  which  he  constantly  revealed  in  the  act  of 
industriously  chewing  mint  gum. 

He  smiled  as  he  chewed.  Duty  had  called  him 
out  into  the  midst,  and  for  once  he  had  obeyed  re- 
luctantly. That  very  afternoon  had  seen  the  return 
of  Dan  Kerry,  junior,  home  from  school  for  the 
Christmas  vacation,  and  Dan  was  the  apple  of  his 
father's  eye. 

Mrs.  Kerry  had  reserved  her  dour  Scottish  com- 
ments upon  the  boy's  school  report  for  a  more  seemly 
occasion  than  the  first  day  of  his  holidays;  but  Kerry 
had  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  his  jubilation — almost 
immoral,  his  wife  had  declared  it  to  be — respecting 
the  lad's  athletic  record.  His  work  on  the  junior  left 
wing  had  gained  the  commendation  of  a  celebrated 
international;  and  Kerry,  who  had  interviewed  the 
gymnasium  instructor,  had  learned  that  Dan  Junior 
bade  fair  to  become  an  amateur  boxer  of  distinction. 

"He  is  faster  on  his  feet  than  any  boy  I  ever 
handled,"  the  expert  had  declared.  "He  hasn't  got 
the  weight  behind  it  yet,  of  course,  but  he's  develop- 
ing a  left  that's  going  to  make  history.  I'm  of 
opinion  that  there  isn't  a  boy  in  the  seniors  can  take 
him  on,  and  I'll  say  that  he's  a  credit  to  you." 

Those  words  had  fallen  more  sweetly  upon  the 
ears  of  Chief  Inspector  Kerry  than  any  encomium  of 
the  boy's  learning  could  have  done.  On  the  purely 
scholastic  side  his  report  was  not  a  good  one,  ad- 


KERRY'S  KID  67 

mittedly.  "But,"  murmured  Kerry  aloud,  "he's  going 
to  be  a  man." 

He  remembered  that  he  had  promised,  despite  the 
lateness  of  the  hour,  to  telephone  the  lad  directly  he 
had  received  a  certain  report,  and  to  tell  him  whether 
he  might  wait  up  for  his  return  or  whether  he  must 
turn  in.  Kerry,  stamping  his  small,  neatly  shod  feet 
upon  the  pavement,  smiled  agreeably.  He  was  think- 
ing of  the  telephone  which  recently  he  had  had  in- 
stalled in  his  house  in  Brixton.  His  wife  had  de- 
manded this  as  a  Christmas  box,  pointing  out  how 
many  uneasy  hours  she  would  be  spared  by  the  instal- 
lation. Kerry  had  consented  cheerfully  enough,  for 
was  he  not  shortly  to  be  promoted  to  the  exalted  post 
of  a  superintendent  of  the  Criminal  Investigation 
Department? 

These  reflections  were  cheering  and  warming;  and, 
waiting  until  a  gap  occurred  in  the  stream  of  cabs  and 
cars,  he  crossed  Piccadilly  and  proceeded  along  Bond 
Street,  swinging  his  shoulders  in  a  manner  which 
would  have  enabled  iny  constable  in  the  force  to 
recognize  uRed  Kerry"  at  a  hundred  yards. 

The  fierce  eyes  scrutinized  the  occupants  of  all  the 
lighted  cars.  At  pedestrians  also  he  stared  curiously, 
and  at  another  smaller  group  of  travellers  waiting 
for  the  buses  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the  street  he 
looked  hard  and  long.  He  pursued  his  way,  acknowl- 
edged the  salutation  of  a  porter  who  stood  outside  the 
entrance  to  the  Embassy  Club,  and  proceeded,  glanc- 
ing about  him  right  and  left  and  with  some  evident  and 
definite  purpose. 


68  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

A  constable  standing  at  the  corner  of  Conduit 
Street  touched  his  helmet  as  Kerry  passed  and  the 
light  of  an  arc-lamp  revealed  the  fierce  red  face. 
The  Chief  Inspector  stopped,  turned,  and : 

"What  the  devil's  the  idea?"  he  demanded. 

He  snapped  out  the  words  in  such  fashion  that  the 
unfortunate  constable  almost  believed  he  could  see 
sparks  in  the  misty  air. 

"I'm  sorry,  sir,  but  recognizing  you  suddenly  like, 
j » 

"You  did?"  the  fierce  voice  interrupted.  "How 
long  in  the  force?" 

"Six  months,  sir." 

"Never  salute  an  officer  in  plain  clothes." 

"I  know,  sir." 

"Then  why  did  you  do  it?" 

"I  told  you,  sir." 

"Then  tell  me  again." 

"I  forgot." 

"You're  paid  to  remember;  bear  it  in  mind." 

Kerry  tucked  his  malacca  under  his  arm  and  walked 
on,  leaving  the  unfortunate  policeman  literally  stupe- 
fied by  his  first  encounter  with  the  celebrated  Chief 
Inspector. 

Presently  another  line  of  cars  proclaimed  the  en- 
trance to  a  club,  and  just  before  reaching  the  first  of 
these  Kerry  paused.  A  man  stood  in  a  shadowy  door- 
way, and: 

"Good  evening,  Chief  Inspector,"  he  said  quietly. 

"Good  evening,  Durham.     Anything  to  report?" 

"Yes.     Lou  Chada  is  here  again. 


KERRY'S  KID  69 

"With  whom?" 

"Lady  Rourke." 

Kerry  stepped  to  the  edge  of  the  pavement  and 
spat  out  a  piece  of  chewing-gum.  From  his  overcoat 
pocket  he  drew  a  fresh  piece,  tore  off  the  pink  wrap- 
ping and  placed  the  gum  between  his  teeth.  Then : 

"How  long?"  he  demanded. 

"Came  to  dinner.     They  are  dancing." 

"H'm!"  The  Chief  Inspector  ranged  himself  be- 
side the  other  detective  in  the  shadow  of  the  door- 
way. "Something's  brewing,  Durham,"  he  said.  "I 
think  I  shall  wait." 

His  subordinate  stared  curiously  but  made  no  reply. 
He  was  not  wholly  in  his  chief's  confidence.  He 
merely  knew  that  the  name  of  Lou  Chada  to  Kerry 
was  like  a  red  rag  to  a  bull.  The  handsome,  cultured 
young  Eurasian,  fresh  from  a  distinguished  university 
career  and  pampered  by  a  certain  section  of  smart 
society,  did  not  conform  to  Detective  Sergeant  Dur- 
ham's idea  of  a  suspect.  He  knew  that  Lou  was  the 
son  of  Zani  Chada,  and  he  knew  that  Zani  Chada  was 
one  of  the  wealthiest  men  in  Limehouse.  But  Lou 
had  an  expensive  flat  in  George  Street;  Lou  was 
courted  by  society  butterflies,  and  in  what  way  he 
could  be  connected  with  the  case  known  as  "the  Lime- 
house  inquiry,"  Durham  could  not  imagine. 

That  the  open  indiscretion  of  Lady  "Pat"  Rourke 
might  lead  to  trouble  with  her  husband,  was  conceivable 
enough;  but  this  was  rather  a  matter  for  underhand 
private  inquiry  than  for  the  attention  of  the  Criminal 
Investigation  Department  of  New  Scotland  Yard. 


70  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

So  mused  Durham,  standing  cold  and  uncomfort- 
able in  the  shadowy  doorway,  and  dreaming  of  a 
certain  cosy  fireside,  a  pair  of  carpet  slippers  and  a 
glass  of  hot  toddy  which  awaited  him.  Suddenly : 

"Great  flames!     Look!"  he  cried. 

Kerry's  fingers  closed,  steely,  upon  Durham's  wrist. 
A  porter  was  urgently  moving  the  parked  cars  farther 
along  the  street  to  enable  one,  a  French  coupe,  to 
draw  up  before  the  club  entrance. 

Two  men  came  out,  supporting  between  them  a 
woman  who  seemed  to  be  ill ;  a  slender,  blonde  woman 
whose  pretty  face  was  pale  and  whose  wide-open  blue 
eyes  stared  strangely  straight  before  her.  The  taller 
of  her  escorts,  while  continuing  to  support  her, 
solicitously  wrapped  her  fur  cloak  about  her  bare 
shoulders;  the  other,  the  manager  of  the  club,  stepped 
forward  and  opened  the  door  of  the  car. 

"Lady  Rourke!"  whispered  Durham. 

"With  Lou  Chada!"  rapped  Kerry.  "Run  for  a 
cab.  Brisk.  Don't  waste  a  second." 

Some  little  conversation  ensued  between  manager 
and  patron,  then  the  tall,  handsome  Eurasian,  waving 
his  hand  protestingly,  removed  his  hat  and  stepped 
into  the  coupe  beside  Lady  Rourke.  It  immediately 
moved  away  in  the  direction  of  Piccadilly. 

One  glimpse  Kerry  had  of  the  pretty,  fair  head 
lying  limply  back  against  the  cushions.  The  man- 
ager of  the  club  was  staring  after  the  car. 

Kerry  stepped  out  from  his  hiding  place.  Durham 
had  disappeared,  and  there  was  no  cab  in  sight,  but 
immediately  beyond  the  illuminated  entrance  stood  a 


KERRY'S  KID  71 

Rolls-Royce  which  had  been  fifth  in  the  rank  of  parked 
cars  before  the  adjustment  had  been  made  to  enable 
the  coupe  to  reach  the  door.  Kerry  ran  across,  and : 

"Whose  car,  my  lad?"  he  demanded  of  the  chauf- 
feur. 

The  latter,  resenting  the  curt  tone  of  the  inquiry, 
looked  the  speaker  up  and  down,  and : 

"Captain  Egerton's,"  he  replied  slowly.  "But 
what  business  may  it  be  of  yours?" 

"I'm  Chief  Inspector  Kerry,  of  New  Scotland 
Yard,"  came  the  rapid  reply.  "I  want  to  follow  the 
car  that  has  just  left." 

"What  about  running?"  demanded  the  man  in- 
solently. 

Kerry  shot  out  a  small,  muscular  hand  and  grasped 
the  speaker's  wrist. 

"I'll  say  one  thing  to  you,"  he  rapped.  "I'm  a 
police  officer,  and  I  demand  your  help.  Refuse  it, 
and  you'll  wake  up  in  Vine  Street." 

The  Chief  Inspector  was  on  the  step  now,  bending 
forward  so  that  his  fierce  red  face  was  but  an  inch 
removed  from  that  of  the  startled  chauffeur.  The 
quelling  force  of  his  ferocious  personality  achieved  its 
purpose,  as  it  rarely  failed  to  do. 

"I'm  getting  in,"  added  the  Chief  Inspector,  jump- 
ing back  on  to  the  pavement.  "Lose  that  French  bus, 
and  I'll  charge  you  with  resisting  and  obstructing  an 
officer  of  the  law  in  the  execution  of  his  duty.  Start." 

Kerry  leaped  in  and  banged  the  door — and  the 
Rolls-Royce  started. 


II 

AT  MALAY  JACK'S 

WHEN  Kerry  left  Bond  Street  the  mistiness 
of  the  night  was  developing  into  definite 
fog.  It  varied  in  different  districts.  Thus, 
St.  Paul's  Churchyard  had  been  clear  of  it  at  a  time 
when  it  had  lain  impenetrably  in  Trafalgar  Square. 
When,  an  hour  and  a  half  after  setting  out  in  the 
commandeered  Rolls-Royce,  Kerry  groped  blindly 
along  Limehouse  Causeway,  it  was  through  a  yellow 
murk  that  he  made  his  way — a  vapour  which  could  not 
only  be  seen,  smelled  and  felt,  but  tasted. 

He  was  in  one  of  his  most  violent  humours.  He 
found  some  slight  solace  in  the  reflection  that  the 
impudent  chauffeur,  from  whom  he  had  parted  in 
West  India  Dock  Road,  must  experience  great 
difficulty  in  finding  his  way  back  to  the  West  End. 

"Damn  the  fog!"  he  muttered,  coughing  irritably. 

It  had  tricked  him,  this  floating  murk  of  London; 
for,  while  he  had  been  enabled  to  keep  the  coupe  in 
view  right  to  the  fringe  of  dockland,  here,  as  if  bred 
by  old  London's  river,  the  fog  had  lain  impenetrably. 

Chief  Inspector  Kerry  was  a  man  who  took  many 
risks,  but  because  of  this  cursed  fog  he  had  no  definite 
evidence  that  Chada's  car  had  gone  to  a  certain 

72 


KERRY'S  KID  73 

house.  Right  of  search  he  had  not,  and  so  temporar- 
ily he  was  baffled. 

Now  the  nearest  telephone  was  his  objective,  and 
presently,  where  a  blue  light  dimly  pierced  the  mist, 
he  paused,  pushed  open  a  swing  door,  and  stepped 
into  a  long,  narrow  passage.  He  descended  three 
stairs,  and  entered  a  room  laden  with  a  sickly  per- 
fume compounded  of  stale  beer  and  spirits;  of  greasy 
humanity — European,  Asiastic,  and  African;  of  cheap 
tobacco  and  cheaper  scents;  and,  vaguely,  of  opium. 

It  was  fairly  well  lighted,  but  the  fog  had  pene- 
trated here,  veiling  some  of  the  harshness  of  its  rough 
appointments.  An  unsavoury  den  was  Malay  Jack's, 
where  flotsam  of  the  river  might  be  found.  Yellow 
men  there  were,  and  black  men  and  brown  men.  But 
all  the  women  present  were  white. 

Fan-tan  was  in  progress  at  one  of  the  tables,  the 
four  players  being  apparently  the  only  strictly  sober 
people  in  the  room.  A  woman  was  laughing  raucously 
as  Kerry  entered,  and  many  coarse-voiced  conversa- 
tions were  in  progress;  but  as  he  pulled  the  rough 
curtain  walls  aside  and  walked  into  the  room,  a  hush, 
highly  complimentary  to  the  Chief  Inspector's  repu- 
tation, fell  upon  the  assembly.  Only  the  woman's 
raucous  laughter  continued,  rising,  a  hideous  solo, 
above  a  sort  of  murmur,  composed  of  the  words  "Red 
Kerry  1"  spoken  in  many  tones. 

Kerry  ignored  the  sensation  which  his  entrance  had 
created,  and  crossed  the  room  to  a  small  counter,  be- 
hind which  a  dusky  man  was  standing,  coatless  and 
shirt  sleeves  rolled  up.  He  had  the  skin  of  a  Malay 


74  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

but  the  features  of  a  stage  Irishman  of  the  old  school. 
And,  indeed,  had  he  known  his  own  pedigree,  which 
is  a  knowledge  beyond  the  ken  of  any  man,  partly 
Irish  he  might  have  found  himself  indeed  to  be. 

This  was  Malay  Jack,  the  proprietor  of  one  of  the 
roughest  houses  in  Limehouse.  His  expression,  while 
propitiatory,  was  not  friendly,  but: 

"Don't  get  hot  and  bothered,"  snapped  Kerry 
viciously.  "I  want  to  use  your  telephone,  that's  all." 

uOh,"  said  the  other,  unable  to  conceal  his  relief, 
"that's  easy.  Come  in." 

He  raised  a  flap  in  the  counter,  and  Kerry,  passing 
through,  entered  a  little  room  behind  the  bar.  Here 
a  telephone  stood  upon  a  dirty,  littered  table,  and, 
taking  it  up : 

"City  four  hundred,"  called  the  Chief  Inspector 
curtly.  A  moment  later:  "Hallo!  Yes,"  he  said. 
"Chief  Inspector  Kerry  speaking.  Put  me  through 
to  my  department,  please." 

He  stood  for  a  while  waiting,  receiver  in  hand,  and 
smiled  grimly  to  note  that  the  uproar  in  the  room 
beyond  had  been  resumed.  Evidently  Malay  Jack 
had  given  the  "all  clear"  signal.  Then: 

"Chief  Inspector  Kerry  speaking,"  he  said  again. 
"Has  Detective  Sergeant  Durham  reported?" 

"Yes,"  was  the  reply,  "half  an  hour  ago.  He's 
standing-by  at  Limehouse  Station.  He  followed  you 
in  a  taxi,  but  lost  you  on  the  way  owing  to  the  fog." 

"I  don't  wonder,"  said  Kerry.  "His  loss  is  not 
so  great  as  mine.  Anything  else?" 

"Nothing  else." 


KERRY'S  KID  75 

"Good.     I'll  speak  to  Limehouse.     Good-bye." 

He  replaced  the  receiver  and  paused  for  a  moment, 
reflecting.  Extracting  a  piece  of  tasteless  gum  from 
between  his  teeth,  he  deposited  it  in  the  grate,  where 
a  sickly  fire  burned;  then,  tearing  the  wrapper  from  a 
fresh  slip,  he  resumed  his  chewing  and  stood  looking 
about  him  with  unseeing  eyes.  Fierce  they  were  as 
ever,  but  introspective  in  expression. 

Famous  for  his  swift  decisions,  for  once  in  a  way 
he  found  himself  in  doubt.  Malay  Jack  had  keen 
ears,  and  there  were  those  in  the  place  who  had  every 
reason  to  be  interested  in  the  movements  of  a  member 
of  the  Criminal  Investigation  Department,  especially 
of  one  who  had  earned  the  right  to  be  dreaded  by  the 
rats  of  Limehouse.  London's  peculiar  climate  fought 
against  him,  but  he  determined  to  make  no  more  tele- 
phone calls  but  to  proceed  to  Limehouse  police  station. 

He  stepped  swiftly  into  the  bar,  and,  as  he  had 
anticipated,  nearly  upset  the  proprietor,  who  was 
standing  listening  by  the  half-open  door.  Kerry 
smiled  fiercely  into  the  ugly  face,  lifted  the  flap,  and 
walked  down  the  room,  through  the  aisle  between  the 
scattered  tables,  where  the  air  was  heavy  with  strange 
perfumes,  touched  now  with  the  bite  of  London  fog, 
and  where  slanting  eyes  and  straight  eyes,  sober  eyes 
and  drunken  eyes,  regarded  him  furtively.  Some- 
thing of  a  second  hush  there  was,  but  one  not  so  com- 
plete as  the  first. 

Kerry  pulled  the  curtain  aside,  mounted  the  stair, 
walked  along  the  passage  and  out  through  the  swing 
door  into  the  yellow  gloom  of  the  Causeway.  Ten 


76  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

slow  steps  he  had  taken  when  he  detected  a  sound  of 
pursuit.  Like  a  flash  he  turned,  clenching  his  fists. 
Then: 

"Inspector!"  whispered  a  husky  voice. 

"Yes!     Who  are  you?     What  do  you  want?" 

A  dim  form  loomed  up  through  the  fog. 

"My  name  is  Peters,  sir.     Inspector  Preston  knows 


me." 


Kerry  had  paused  immediately  under  a  street  lamp, 
and  now  he  looked  into  the  pinched,  lean  face  of  the 
speaker,  and: 

"I've  heard  of  you,"  he  snapped.  "Got  some  in- 
formation for  me?" 

"I  think  so;  but  walk  on." 

Chief  Inspector  Kerry  hesitated.  Peters  belonged 
to  a  class  which  Kerry  despised  with  all  the  force  of 
his  straightforward  character.  A  professional  in- 
former has  his  uses  from  the  police  point  of  view; 
and  while  evidence  of  this  kind  often  figured  in  reports 
made  to  the  Chief  Inspector,  he  personally  avoided 
contact  with  such  persons,  as  he  instinctively  and 
daintily  avoided  contact  with  personal  dirt.  But  now, 
something  so  big  was  at  stake  that  his  hesitation  was 
_pnly  momentary. 

A  vision  of  the  pale  face  of  Lady  Rourke,  of  the 
golden  head  leaning  weakly  back  upon  the  cushions  of 
the  coupe,  as  he  had  glimpsed  it  in  Bond  Street,  rose 
before  his  mind's  eye  as  if  conjured  up  out  of  the  fog. 
Peters  shuffled  along  beside  him,  and : 

"Young  Chada's  done  himself  in  to-night,"  con- 
tinued the  husky  voice.  "He  brought  a  swell  girl  to 


KERRY'S  KID  77 

the  old  man,s  house  an  hour  ago.  I  was  hanging 
about  there,  thinking  I  might  get  some  information. 
I  think  she  was  doped." 

"Why?"  snapped  Kerry. 

"Well,  I  was  standing  over  on  the  other  side  of 
the  street.  Lou  Chada  opened  the  door  with  a  key; 
and  when  the  light  shone  out  I  saw  him  carry  her  in." 

"Carry  her  in?" 

"Yes.  She  was  in  evening  dress,  with  a  swell 
cloak." 

"The  car?" 

"He  came  out  again  and  drove  it  around  to  the 
garage  at  the  back." 

"Why  didn't  you  report  this  at  once?" 

"I  was  on  my  way  to  do  it  when  I  saw  you  coming 
out  of  Malay  Jack's." 

The  man's  voice  shook  nervously,  and: 

"What  are  you  scared  about?"  asked  Kerry  sav- 
agely. "Got  anything  else  to  tell  me?" 

"No,  no,"  muttered  Peters.  "Only  I've  got  an 
idea  he  saw  me." 

'Who  saw  you?" 

"Lou  Chada." 

"What  then?" 

"Well,  only — don't  leave  me  till  we  get  to  the 
station." 

Kerry  blew  down  his  nose  contemptuously,  then 
stopped  suddenly. 

"Stand  still,"  he  ordered.     "I  want  to  listen." 

Silent,  they  stood  in  a  place  of  darkness,  untouched 
by  any  lamplight.  Not  a  sound  reached  them  through 


78  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

the  curtain  of  fog.  Asiatic  mystery  wrapped  them 
about,  but  Kerry  experienced  only  contempt  for  the 
cowardice  of  his  companion,  and: 

"You  need  come  no  farther,"  he  said  coldly. 
"Good  night." 

uBut "  began  the  man. 

"Good  night,"  repeated  Kerry. 

He  walked  on  briskly,  tapping  the  pavement  with 
his  malacca.  The  sneaking  figure  of  the  informer 
was  swallowed  up  in  the  fog.  But  not  a  dozen  paces 
had  the  Chief  Inspector  gone  when  he  was  arrested  by 
a  frenzied  scream,  rising,  hollowly,  in  a  dreadful, 
muffled  crescendo.  Words  reached  him. 

"My  God,  he's  stabbed  me!" 

Then  came  a  sort  of  babbling,  which  died  into  a 
moan. 

"Hell!"  muttered  Kerry,  "the  poor  devil  was 
right!" 

He  turned  and  began  to  run  back,  fumbling  in 
his  pocket  for  his  electric  torch.  Almost  in  the  same 
moment  that  he  found  it  he  stumbled  upon  Peters, 
who  lay  half  in  the  road  and  half  upon  the  sidewalk. 

Kerry  pressed  the  button,  and  met  the  glance  of 
upturned,  glazing  eyes.  Even  as  he  dropped  upon 
his  knee  beside  the  dying  man,  Peters  swept  his  arm 
around  in  a  convulsive  movement,  having  the  fingers 
crooked,  coughed  horribly,  and  rolled  upon  his  face. 

Switching  off  the  light  of  the  torch,  Kerry  clenched 
his  jaws  in  a  tense  effort  of  listening,  literally  holding 
his  breath.  But  no  sound  reached  him  through  the 
muffling  fog.  A  moment  he  hesitated,  well  knowing 


KERRY'S  KID  79 

his  danger,  then  viciously  snapping  on  the  light  again, 
he  quested  in  the  blood-stained  mud  all  about  the 
body  of  the  murdered  man. 

"Ah!" 

It  was  an  exclamation  of  triumph. 

One  corner  hideously  stained,  for  it  had  lain  half 
under  Peters's  shoulder,  Kerry  gingerly  lifted  between 
finger  and  thumb  a  handkerchief  of  fine  white  silk, 
such  as  is  carried  in  the  breast  pocket  of  an  evening 
coat. 

It  bore  an  ornate  monogram  worked  in  gold,  and 
representing  the  letters  "L.  C."  Oddly  enough,  it 
was  the  corner  that  bore  the  monogram  which  was 
also  bloodstained. 


Ill 

THE  ROOM  OF  THE  GOLDEN  BUDDHA 

IT  WAS  a  moot  point  whether  Lady  Pat  Rourke 
merited  condemnation  or  pity.  She  possessed 
that  type  of  blonde  beauty  which  seems  to  be  a 
lodestone  for  mankind  in  general.  Her  husband  was 
wealthy,  twelve  years  her  senior,  and,  far  from  watch- 
ing over  her  with  jealous  care — an  attitude  which  often 
characterizes  such  unions — he,  on  the  contrary,  per- 
mitted her  a  dangerous  freedom,  believing  that  she 
would  appreciate  without  abusing  it. 

Her  friendship  with  Lou  Chada  had  first  opened 
his  eyes  to  the  perils  which  beset  the  road  of  least 
resistance.  Sir  Noel  Rourke  was  an  Anglo-Indian, 
and  his  prejudice  against  the  Eurasian  was  one  not 
lightly  to  be  surmounted.  Not  all  the  polish  which 
English  culture  had  given  to  this  child  of  a  mixed 
union  could  blind  Sir  Noel  to  the  yellow  streak. 
Courted  though  Chada  was  by  some  of  the  best  people, 
Sir  Noel  remained  cold.' 

The  long,  magnetic  eyes,  the  handsome,  clear-cut 
features,  above  all,  that  slow  and  alluring  smile,  ap- 
pealed to  the  husband  of  the  wilful  Pat  rather  as 
evidences  of  Oriental,  half-effeminate  devilry  than 
as  passports  to  decent  society.  Oxford  had  veneered 

80 


KERRY'S  KID  81 

him,  but  scratch  the  veneer  and  one  found  the  sandal- 
wood  of  the  East,  perfumed,  seductive,  appealing,  but 
something  to  be  shunned  as  brittle  and  untrust- 
worthy. 

Yet  he  hesitated,  seeking  to  be  true  to  his  convic- 
tions. Knowing  what  he  knew  already,  and  what  he 
suspected,  it  is  certain  that,  could  he  have  viewed  Lou 
Chada  through  the  eyes  of  Chief  Inspector  Kerry, 
the  affair  must  have  terminated  otherwise.  But  Sir 
Noel  did  not  know  what  Kerry  knew.  And  the 
pleasure-seeking  Lady  Rourke,  with  her  hair  of  spun 
gold  and  her  provoking  smile,  found  Lou  Chada 
dangerously  fascinating;  almost  she  was  infatuated — 
she  who  had  known  so  much  admiration. 

Of  those  joys  for  which  thousands  of  her  plainer 
sisters  yearn  and  starve  to  the  end  of  their  days  she 
had  experienced  a  surfeit.  Always  she  sought  for 
novelty,  for  new  adventures.  She  was  confident  of 
herself,  but  yet — and  here  lay  the  delicious  thrill — 
not  wholly  confident.  Many  times  she  had  promised 
to  visit  the  house  of  Lou  Chada's  father — a  mystery 
palace  cunningly  painted,  a  perfumed  page  from  the 
Arabian  poets  dropped  amid  the  interesting  squalour 
of  Limehouse. 

Perhaps  she  had  never  intended  to  go.  Who 
knows?  But  on  the  night  when  she  came  within  the 
ken  of  Chief  Inspector  Kerry,  Lou  Chada  had  urged 
her  to  do  so  in  his  poetically  passionate  fashion,  and, 
wanting  to  go,  she  had  asked  herself:  "Am  I  strong 
enough?  Dare  I?" 

They  had  dined,  danced,  and  she  had  smoked  one 


82  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

of  the  scented  cigarettes  which  he  alone  seemed  to  be 
able  to  procure,  and  which,  on  their  arrival  from  the 
East,  were  contained  in  queer  little  polished  wooden 
boxes. 

Then  had  come  an  unfamiliar  nausea  and  dizziness, 
an  uncomfortable  recognition  of  the  fact  that  she  was 
making  a  fool  of  herself,  and  finally  a  semi-darkness 
through  which  familiar  faces  loomed  up  and  were 
quickly  lost  again.  There  was  the  soft,  musical  voice 
of  Lou  Chada  reassuring  her,  a  sense  of  chill,  of  help- 
lessness, and  then  for  a  while  an  interval  which  after- 
ward she  found  herself  unable  to  bridge. 

Knowledge  of  verity  came  at  last,  and  Lady  Pat 
raised  herself  from  the  divan  upon  which  she  had 
been  lying,  and,  her  slender  hands  clutching  the  cush- 
ions, stared  about  her  with  eyes  which  ever  grew 
wider. 

She  was  in  a  long,  rather  lofty  room,  which  was 
lighted  by  three  silver  lanterns  swung  from  the  ceiling. 
The  place,  without  containing  much  furniture,  was  a 
riot  of  garish,  barbaric  colour.  There  were  deep  divans 
cushioned  in  amber  and  blood-red.  Upon  the  floor  lay 
Persian  carpets  and  skins  of  beasts.  Cunning  niches 
there  were,  half  concealing  and  half  revealing  long- 
necked  Chinese  jars;  and  odd  little  carven  tables  bore 
strangely  fashioned  vessels  of  silver.  There  was  a  cab- 
inet of  ebony  inlaid  with  jade,  there  were  black  tapes- 
tries figured  with  dragons  of  green  and  gold.  Curtains 
she  saw  of  peacock-blue;  and  in  a  tall,  narrow  recess, 
dominating  the  room,  squatted  a  great  golden  Buddha. 

The  atmosphere  was  laden  with  a  strange  perfume. 


KERRY'S  KID  83 

But,  above  all,  this  room  was  silent,  most  oppressively 
silent. 

Lady  Pat  started  to  her  feet.  The  whole  perfumed 
place  seemed  to  be  swimming  around  her.  Reclosing 
her  eyes,  she  fought  down  her  weakness.  The  truth, 
the  truth  respecting  Lou  Chada  and  herself,  had  up- 
risen starkly  before  her.  By  her  own  folly — and  she 
could  find  no  tiny  excuse — she  had  placed  herself  in 
the  power  of  a  man  whom,  instinctively,  deep  within 
her  soul,  she  had  always  known  to  be  utterly  un- 
scrupulous. 

How  cleverly  he  had  concealed  the  wild  animal 
which  dwelt  beneath  that  suave,  polished  exterior! 
Yet  how  ill  he  had  concealed  it!  For  intuitively  she 
had  always  recognized  its  presence,  but  had  deliber- 
ately closed  her  eyes,  finding  a  joy  in  the  secret  knowl- 
edge of  danger.  Now  at  last  he  had  discarded  pretense. 

The  cigarette  which  he  had  offered  her  at  the  club 
had  been  drugged.  She  was  in  Limehouse,  at  the 
mercy  of  a  man  in  whose  veins  ran  the  blood  of  ances- 
tors to  whom  women  had  been  chattels.  Too  well 
she  recognized  that  his  passion  must  have  driven  him 
insane,  as  he  must  know  at  what  cost  he  took  such 
liberties  with  one  who  could  not  lightly  be  so  treated. 
But  these  reflections  afforded  poor  consolation.  It 
was  not  of  the  penalties  that  Lou  Chada  must  suffer 
for  this  infringement  of  Western  codes,  but  of  the 
price  that  she  must  pay  for  her  folly,  of  which  Pat 
was  thinking. 

There  was  a  nauseating  taste  upon  her  palate. 
She  remembered  having  noticed  it  faintly  while  she 


84  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

was  smoking  the  cigarette ;  indeed,  she  had  commented 
upon  it  at  the  time. 

uThe  dirty  yellow  blackguard!"  she  said  aloud, 
and  clenched  her  hands. 

She  merely  echoed  what  many  a  man  had  said  be- 
fore her.  She  wondered  at  herself,  and  in  doing  so 
but  wondered  at  the  mystery  of  womanhood. 

Clarity  was  returning.  The  room  no  longer  swam 
around  her.  She  crossed  in  the  direction  of  a  garish 
curtain,  which  instinctively  she  divined  to  mask  a 
door.  Dragging  it  aside,  she  tried  the  handle,  but 
the  door  was  locked.  A  second  door  she  found,  and 
this  also  proved  to  be  locked. 

There  was  one  tall  window,  also  covered  by  ornate 
draperies,  but  it  was  shuttered,  and  the  shutters  had 
locks.  Another  small  window  she  discovered,  glazed 
with  amber  glass,  but  set  so  high  in  the  wall  as  to 
be  inaccessible. 

Dread  assailed  her,  and  dropping  on  to  one  of  the 
divans,  she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"My  God!"  she  whispered.  "My  God!  Give 
me  strength — give  me  courage." 

For  a  long  time  she  remained  there,  listening  for 
any  sound  which  should  disperse  the  silence.  She 
thought  of  her  husband,  of  the  sweet  security  of  her 
home,  of  the  things  which  she  had  forfeited  because 
of  this  mad  quest  of  adventure.  And  presently  a  key 
grated  in  a  lock. 

Lady  Pat  started  to  her  feet  with  a  wild,  swift 
action  which  must  have  reminded  a  beholder  of  a 
startled  gazelle.  The  drapery  masking  the  door 


KERRY'S  KID  85 

which  she  had  first  investigated  was  drawn  aside.  A 
man  entered  and  dropped  the  curtain  behind  him. 

Exactly  what  she  had  expected  she  could  not  have 
defined,  but  the  presence  of  this  perfect  stranger  was 
a  complete  surprise.  The  man,  who  wore  embroidered 
slippers  and  a  sort  of  long  blue  robe,  stood  there 
regarding  her  with  an  expression  which,  even  in  her 
frantic  condition,  she  found  to  be  puzzling.  He  had 
long,  untidy  gray  hair  brushed  back  from  his  low 
brow;  eyes  strangely  like  the  eyes  of  Lou  Chada, 
except  that  they  were  more  heavy-lidded;  but  his  skin 
was  as  yellow  as  a  guinea,  and  his  gaunt,  clean- 
shaven face  was  the  face  of  an  Oriental. 

The  slender  hands,  too,  which  he  held  clasped 
before  him,  were  yellow,  and  possessed  a  curiously 
arresting  quality.  Pat  imagined  them  clasped  about 
her  white  throat,  and  her  very  soul  seemed  to  shrink 
from  the  man  who  stood  there  looking  at  her  with 
those  long,  magnetic,  inscrutable  eyes. 

She  wondered  why  she  was  surprised,  and  suddenly 
realized  that  it  was  because  of  the  expression  in  his 
eyes,  for  it  was  an  expression  of  cold  anger.  Then 
the  intruder  spoke. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  demanded,  speaking  with  an 
accent  which  was  unfamiliar  to  her,  but  in  a  voice 
which  was  not  unlike  the  voice  of  Lou  Chada.  "Who 
brought  you  here?" 

This  was  so  wholly  unexpected  that  for  a  moment 
she  found  herself  unable  to  reply,  but  finally: 

"How  dare  you!"  she  cried,  her  native  courage 
reasserting  itself.  "I  have  been  drugged  and  brought 


86  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

to  this  place.     You  shall  pay  for  it.     How  dare  you!" 

"Ah!"  The,  long,  dark  eyes  regarded  her  un- 
movingly.  "But  who  are  you?" 

"I  am  Lady  Rourke.  Open  the  door.  You  shall 
bitterly  regret  this  outrage." 

"You  are  Lady  Rourke?"  the  man  repeated.  "Be- 
fore you  speak  of  regrets,  answer  the  question  which 
I  have  asked:  Who  brought  you  here?" 

%ou  Chada." 

P'Ah !"    There  was  no  alteration  of  pose,  no  change 
of  expression,  but  slightly  the  intonation  had  varied. 

"I  don't  know  who  you  are,  but  I  demand  to  be 
released  from  this  place  instantly." 

The  man  standing  before  the  curtained  door  slightly 
inclined  his  head. 

"You  shall  be  released,"  he  replied,  "but  not  in- 
stantly. I  will  see  the  one  who  brought  you  here. 
He  may  not  be  entirely  to  blame.  Before  you  leave 
we  shall  understand  one  another." 

Tone  and  glance  were  coldly  angry.  Then,  before 
the  frightened  woman  could  say  another  word,  the 
man  in  the  blue  robe  robe  withdrew,  the  curtain  was 
dropped  again,  and  she  heard  the  grating  of  a  key  in 
the  lock.  She  ran  to  the  door,  beating  upon  it  with 
her  clenched  hands. 

"Let  me  go!"  she  cried,  half  hysterically.  "Let 
me  go!  You  shall  pay  for  this!  Oh,  you  shall  pay 
for  this!" 

No  one  answered,  and,  turning,  she  leaned  back 
against  the  curtain,  breathing  heavily  and  fighting  for 
composure,  for  strength. 


IV 

ZANI  CHADA,  THE  EURASIAN 

I  CAN'T  help  thinking,  Chief  Inspector,"  said  the 
officer  in  charge  at  Limehouse  Station,  uthat  you 
take  unnecessary  risks." 

"Can't  you?"  said  Kerry,  tilting  his  bowler  farther 
forward  and  staring  truculently  at  the  speaker. 

uNo,  I  can't.  Since  you  cleaned  up  the  dope  gang 
down  here  you've  been  a  marked  man.  These  murders 
in  the  Chinatown  area,  of  which  this  one  to-night 
makes  the  third,  have  got  some  kind  of  big  influence 
behind  them.  Yet  you  wander  about  in  the  fog  with- 
out even  a  gun  in  your  pocket." 

"I  don't  believe  in  guns,"  rapped  Kerry.  "My 
bare  hands  are  good  enough  for  any  yellow  smart  in 
this  area.  And  if  they  give  out  I  can  kick  like  a 
mule." 

The  other  laughed,  shaking  his  head. 

"It's  silly,  all  the  same,"  he  persisted.  "The  man 
who  did  the  job  out  there  in  the  fog  to-night  might 
have  knifed  you  or  shot  you  long  before  you  could 
have  got  here." 

"He  might,"  snapped  Kerry,  "but  he  didn't." 

Yet,  remembering  his  wife,  who  would  be  wait- 
ing for  him  in  the  cosy  sitting-room  he  knew  a 

87 


88  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

sudden  pang.  Perhaps  he  did  take  unnecessary 
chances.  Others  had  said  so.  Hard  upon  the 
thought  came  the  memory  of  his  boy,  and  of  the  tele- 
phone message  which  the  episodes  of  the  night  had 
prevented  him  from  sending. 

He  remembered,  too,  something  which  his  fearless 
nature  had  prompted  him  to  forget:  he  remembered 
how,  just  as  he  had  arisen  from  beside  the  body  of 
the  murdered  man,  oblique  eyes  had  regarded  him 
swiftly  out  of  the  fog.  He  had  lashed  out  with  a 
boxer's  instinct,  but  his  knuckles  had  encountered 
nothing  but  empty  air.  No  sound  had  come  to  tell 
him  that  the  thing  had  not  been  an  illusion.  Only, 
once  again,  as  he  groped  his  way  through  the  shuttered 
streets  of  Chinatown  and  the  silence  of  the  yellow 
mist,  something  had  prompted  him  to  turn;  and  again 
he  had  detected  the  glint  of  oblique  eyes,  and  faintly 
had  discerned  the  form  of  one  who  followed  him. 

Kerry  chewed  viciously,  then: 

"I  think  I'll  'phone  the  wife,"  he  said  abruptly. 
"She'll  be  expecting  me." 

Almost  before  he  had  finished  speaking  the  'phone 
bell  rang,  and  a  few  moments  later : 

"Someone  to  speak  to  you,  Chief  Inspector  "  cried 
the  officer  in  charge. 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Kerry,  his  fierce  eyes  lighting  up. 
"That  will  be  from  home." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  was  the  reply.  "But  see  who 
it  is." 

"Hello!"  he  called. 

He  was  answered  by  an  unfamiliar  voice,  a  voice 


KERRY'S  KID  89 

which  had  a  queer,  guttural  intonation.     It  was  the 
sort  of  voice  he  had  learned  to  loathe. 

"Is  that  Chief  Inspector  Kerry?" 

"Yes,"  he  snapped. 

"May  I  take  it  that  what  I  have  to  say  will  be 
treated  in  confidence?" 

"Certainly  not." 

"Think  again,  Chief  Inspector,"  the  voice  con- 
tinued. "You  are  a  man  within  sight  of  the  ambition 
of  years,  and  although  you  may  be  unaware  of  the 
fact,  you  stand  upon  the  edge  of  a  disaster.  I  appre- 
ciate your  sense  of  duty  and  respect  it.  But  there 
are  times  when  diplomacy  is  a  more  potent  weapon 
than  force." 

Kerry,  listening,  became  aware  that  the  speaker  was 
a  man  of  cultured  intellect.  He  wondered  greatly, 
but: 

"My  time  is  valuable,"  he  said  rapidly.  "Come  to 
the  point.  What  do  you  want  and  who  are  you?" 

"One  moment,  Chief  Inspector.  An  opportunity 
to  make  your  fortune  without  interfering  with  your 
career  has  come  in  your  way.  You  have  obtained 
possession  of  what  you  believe  to  be  a  clue  to  a 
murder." 

The  voice  ceased,  and  Kerry  remaining  silent,  im- 
mediately continued : 

"Knowing  your  personal  character,  I  doubt  if  you 
have  communicated  the  fact  of  your  possessing  this 
evidence  to  anyone  else.     I  suggest,  in  your  own  in- 
terests, that  before  doing  so  you  interview  me." 

Kerry  thought  rapidly,  and  then: 


90  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"I  don't  say  you're  right,"  he  rapped  back.  "But 
if  I  come  to  see  you,  I  shall  leave  a  sealed  statement  in 
possession  of  the  officer  in  charge  here." 

"To  this  I  have  no  objection,"  the  guttural  voice 
replied,  "but  I  beg  of  you  to  bring  the  evidence  with 
you." 

"I'm  not  to  be  bought,"  warned  Kerry.  "Don't 
think  it  and  don't  suggest  it,  or  when  I  get  to  you 
I'll  break  you  in  half." 

His  red  moustache  positively  bristled,  and  he 
clutched  the  receiver  so  tightly  that  it  quivered  against 
his  ear. 

"You  mistake  me,"  replied  the  speaker.  "My  name 
is  Zani  Chada.  You  know  where  I  live.  I  shall 
not  detain  you  more  than  five  minutes  if  you  will  do 
me  the  honour  of  calling  upon  me." 

Kerry  chewed  furiously  for  ten  momentous  seconds, 
then: 

"I'll  come!"  he  said. 

He  replaced  the  receiver  on  the  hook,  and,  walking 
across  to  the  charge  desk,  took  an  official  form  and  a 
pen.  On  the  back  of  the  form  he  scribbled  rapidly, 
watched  with  curiosity  by  the  officer  in  charge. 

"Give  me  an  envelope,"  he  directed. 

An  envelope  was  found  and  handed  to  him.  He 
placed  the  paper  in  the  envelope,  gummed  down  the 
lapel,  and  addressed  it  in  large,  bold  writing  to  the 
Assistant  Commissioner  of  the  Criminal  Investigation 
Department,  who  was  his  chief.  Finally: 

"I'm  going  out,"  he  explained. 

"After  what  I've  said?" 


KERRY'S  KID  91 

''After  what  you've  said.  I'm  going  out.  If  I 
don't  come  back  or  don't  telephone  within  the  next 
hour,  you  will  know  what  to  do  with  this." 

The  Limehouse  official  stared  perplexedly. 

"But  meanwhile,"  he  protested,  "what  steps  am  I 
to  take  about  the  murder?  Durham  will  be  back  with 
the  body  at  any  moment  now,  and  you  say  you've  got 
a  clue  to  the  murderer." 

"I  have,"  said  Kerry,  "but  I'm  going  to  get  definite 
evidence.  Do  nothing  until  you  hear  from  me." 

"Very  good,"  answered  the  other,  and  Kerry,  tuck- 
ing his  malacca  cane  under  his  arm,  strode  out  into 
the  fog. 

His  knowledge  of  the  Limehouse  area  was  exten- 
sive and  peculiar,  so  that  twenty  minutes  later,  having 
made  only  one  mistake  in  the  darkness,  he  was  press- 
ing an  electric  bell  set  beside  a  door  which  alone  broke 
the  expanse  of  a  long  and  dreary  brick  wall,  lining  a 
street  which  neither  by  day  nor  night  would  have 
seemed  inviting  to  the  casual  visitor. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  Chinaman  wearing 
national  dress,  revealing  a  small,  square  lobby,  warmly 
lighted  and  furnished  Orientally.  Kerry  stepped  in 
briskly. 

"I  want  to  see  Mr.  Zani  Chada.  Tell  him  I  am 
here.  Chief  Inspector  Kerry  is  my  name." 

The  Chinaman  bowed,  crossed  the  lobby,  and, 
drawing  some  curtains  aside,  walked  up  four  carpeted 
stairs  and  disappeared  into  a  short  passage  revealed 
by  the  raising  of  the  tapestry.  As  he  did  so  Kerry 
stared  about  him  curiously. 


92  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

He  had  never  before  entered  the  mystery  house  of 
Zani  Chada,  nor  had  he  personally  encountered  the 
Eurasian,  reputed  to  be  a  millionaire,  but  who  chose, 
for  some  obscure  reason,  to  make  his  abode  in  this 
old  rambling  building,  once  a  country  mansion,  which 
to-day  was  closely  invested  by  dockland  and  the  narrow 
alleys  of  Chinatown.  It  was  curiously  still  in  the 
lobby,  and,  as  he  determined,  curiously  Eastern.  He 
was  conscious  of  a  sense  of  exhilaration.  That  Zani 
Chada  controlled  powerful  influences,  he  knew  well. 
But,  reviewing  the  precautions  which  he  had  taken, 
Kerry  determined  that  the  trump  card  was  in  his 
possession. 

The  Chinese  servant  descended  the  stairs  again  and 
intimated  that  the  visitor  should  follow  him.  Kerry, 
carrying  his  hat  and  cane,  mounted  the  stairs,  walked 
along  the  carpeted  passage,  and  was  ushered  into  a 
queer,  low  room  furnished  as  a  library. 

It  was  lined  with  shelves  containing  strange-looking 
books,  none  of  which  appeared  to  be  English.  Upon 
the  top  of  the  shelves  were  grotesque  figures  of  gods, 
pieces  of  Chinese  pottery  and  other  Oriental  orna- 
ments. Arms  there  were  in  the  room,  and  rich  carpets, 
carven  furniture,  and  an  air  of  luxury  peculiarly  exotic. 
Furthermore,  he  detected  a  faint  smell  of  opium  from 
which  fact  he  divined  that  Zani  Chada  was  addicted 
to  the  national  vice  of  China. 

Seated  before  a  long  narrow  table  was  the  notorious 
Eurasian.  The  table  contained  a  number  of  strange 
and  unfamiliar  objects,  as  well  as  a  small  rack  of 
books.  An  opium  pipe  rested  in  a  porcelain  bowl. 


KERRY'S  KID  93 

Zani  Chada,  wearing  a  blue  robe,  sat  in  a  cushioned 
chair,  staring  toward  the  Chief  Inspector.  With  one 
slender  yellow  hand  he  brushed  his  untidy  gray  hair. 
His  long  magnetic  eyes  were  half  closed. 

"Good  evening,  Chief  Inspector  Kerry,"  he  said. 
"Won't  you  be  seated?" 

"Thanks,  I'm  not  staying.  I  can  hear  what  you've 
got  to  say  standing." 

The  long  eyes  grew  a  little  more  narrow — the  only 
change  of  expression  that  Zani  Chada  allowed  himself. 

"As  you  wish.  I  have  no  occasion  to  detain  you 
long." 

Iff  that  queer,  perfumed  room,  with  the  suggestion 
of  something  sinister  underlying  its  exotic  luxury, 
arose  a  kind  of  astral  clash  as  the  powerful  personality 
of  the  Eurasian  came  in  contact  with  that  of  Kerry. 
In  a  sense  it  was  a  contest  of  rapier  and  battle-axe; 
an  insidious  but  powerful  will  enlisted  against  the 
bulldog  force  of  the  Chief  Inspector. 

Still  through  half-closed  eyes  Zani  Chada  watched 
his  visitor,  who  stood,  feet  apart  and  chin  thrust  for- 
ward aggressively,  staring  with  wide  open,  fierce  blue 
eyes  at  the  other. 

"I'm  going  to  say  one  thing,"  declared  Kerry, 
snapping  out  the  words  in  a  manner  little  short  of 
ferocious.  He  laid  his  hat  and  cane  upon  a  chair  and 
took  a  step  in  the  direction  of  the  narrow,  laden  table. 
"Make  me  any  kind  of  offer  to  buy  back  the  evidence 
you  think  I've  got,  and  I'll  bash  your  face  as  flat  as  a 
frying-pan." 

The  yellow  hands  of  Zani  Chada  clutched  the  metal 


94  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

knobs  which  ornamented  the  arms  of  the  chair  in 
which  he  was  seated.  The  long  eyes  now  presented 
the  appearance  of  being  entirely  closed;  otherwise  he 
remained  immovable. 

Following  a  short,  portentous  silence: 

"How  grossly  you  misunderstood  me,  Chief  In- 
spector," Chada  replied,  speaking  very  softly.  "You 
are  shortly  to  be  promoted  to  a  post  which  no  one  is 
better  fitted  to  occupy.  You  enjoy  great  domestic 
happiness,  and  you  possess  a  son  in  whom  you  repose 
great  hopes.  In  this  respect  Chief  Inspector,  I  re- 
semble you." 

Kerry's  nostrils  were  widely  dilated,  but  he  did  not 
speak. 

"You  see,"  continued  the  Eurasian,  "I  know  many 
things  about  you.  Indeed,  I  have  watched  your  career 
with  interest.  Now,  to  be  brief,  a  great  scandal  may 
be  averted  and  a  woman's  reputation  preserved  if  you 
and  I,  as  men  of  the  world,  can  succeed  in  understand- 
ing one  another." 

"I  don't  want  to  understand  you,"  said  Kerry 
bluntly.  "But  you've  said  enough  already  to  justify 
me  in  blowing  this  whistle."  He  drew  a  police 
whistle  from  his  overcoat  pocket.  "This  house  is 
being  watched." 

"I  am  aware  of  the  fact,"  murmured  Zani  Chada. 

"There  are  two  people  in  it  I  want  for  two  different 
reasons.  If  you  say  much  more  there  may  be  three." 

Chada  raised  his  hand  slowly. 

"Put  back  your  whistle,  Chief  Inspector." 

There  was   a   curious   restraint   in   the   Eurasian's 


KERRY'S  KID  95 

manner  which  Kerry  distrusted,  but  for  which  at  the 
time  he  was  at  a  loss  to  account.  Then  suddenly  he 
determined  that  the  man  was  waiting  for  something, 
listening  for  some  sound.  As  if  to  confirm  this 
reasoning,  just  at  that  moment  a  sound  indeed  broke 
the  silence  of  the  room. 

Somewhere  far  away  in  the  distance  of  the  big 
house  a  gong  was  beaten  three  times  softly.  Kerry's 
fierce  glance  searched  the  face  of  Zani  Chada,  but  it 
remained  mask-like,  immovable.  Yet  that  this  had 
been  a  signal  of  some  kind  the  Chief  Inspector  did 
not  doubt,  and: 

"You  can't  trick  me,"  he  said  fiercely.  "No  one 
can  leave  this  house  without  my  knowledge,  and  be- 
cause of  what  happened  out  there  in  the  fog  my  hands 
are  untied." 

He  took  up  his  hat  and  cane  from  the  chair. 

"I'm  going  to  search  the  premises,"  he  declared 

Zani  Chada  stood  up  slowly. 

"Chief  Inspector,"  he  said,  "I  advise  you  to  do 
nothing  until  you  have  consulted  your  wife." 

"Consulted  my  wife?"  snapped  Kerry.  "What  the 
devil  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  any  steps  you  may  take  now  can  only 
lead  to  disaster  for  many,  and  in  your  own  case  to 
great  sorrow." 

Kerry  took  a  step  forward,  two  steps,  then  paused. 
He  was  considering  certain  words  which  the  Eurasian 
had  spoken.  Without  fearing  the  man  in  the  physical 
sense,  he  was  not  fool  enough  to  underestimate  his 
potentialities  for  evil  and  his  power  to  strike  darkly. 


96  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"Act  as  you  please,"  added  Zani  Chada,  speaking 
even  more  softly.  "But  I  have  not  advised  lightly. 
I  will  receive  you,  Chief  Inspector,  at  any  hour  of  the 
night  you  care  to  return.  By  to-morrow,  if  you  wish, 
you  may  be  independent  of  everybody." 

Kerry  clenched  his  fists. 

"And  great  sorrow  may  be  spared  to  others,"  con- 
cluded the  Eurasian. 

Kerry's  teeth  snapped  together  audibly;  then,  put- 
ting on  his  hat,  he  turned  and  walked  straight  to  the 
door. 


DAN  KERRY,  JUNIOR 

DAN  KERRY,  junior,  was  humorously  like  his 
father,  except  that  he  was  larger-boned  and 
promised  to  grow  into  a  much  bigger  man. 
His  hair  was  uncompromisingly  red,  and  grew  in  such 
irregular  fashion  that  the  comb  was  not  made  which 
could  subdue  it.  He  had  the  wide-open,  fighting  blue 
eyes  of  the  Chief  Inspector,  and  when  he  smiled  the 
presence  of  two  broken  teeth  lent  him  a  very  pugilistic 
appearance. 

On  his  advent  at  the  school  of  which  he  was  now 
one  of  the  most  popular  members,  he  had  promptly 
been  christened  "Carrots."  To  this  nickname  young 
Kerry  had  always  taken  exception,  and  he  proceeded 
to  display  his  prejudice  on  the  first  day  of  his  arrival 
with  such  force  and  determination  that  the  sobriquet 
had  been  withdrawn  by  tacit  consent  of  every  member 
of  the  form  who  hitherto  had  favoured  it. 

"I'll  take  you  all  on,"  the  new  arrival  had  declared 
amidst  a  silence  of  stupefaction,  "starting  with  you" 
— pointing  to  the  biggest  boy.  "If  we  don't  finish 
to-day,  I'll  begin  again  to-morrow." 

The  sheer  impudence  of  the  thing  had  astounded 
everybody.  Young  Kerry's  treatment  of  his  leading 

97 


9  8  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

persecutor  had  produced  a  salutary  change  of  opinion. 
Of  such  kidney  was  Daniel  Kerry,  junior;  and  when, 
some  hours  after  his  father's  departure  on  the  night 
of  the  murder  in  the  fog,  the  'phone  bell  rang,  it  was 
Dan  junior,  and  not  his  mother,  who  answered  the  call. 

"Hallo!"  said  a  voice.  uls  that  Chief  Inspector 
Kerry's  house?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Dan. 

"It  has  begun  to  rain  in  town,"  the  voice  continued. 
"Is  that  the  Chief  Inspector's  son  speaking?" 

"Yes,  I'm  Daniel  Kerry." 

"Well,  my  boy,  you  know  the  way  to  New  Scotland 
Yard?" 

"Rather." 

"He  says  will  you  bring  his  overall?  Do  you  know 
where  to  find  it?" 

"Yes,  yes!"  cried  Dan  excitedly,  delighted  to  be 
thus  made  a  party  to  his  father's  activities. 

"Well,  get  it.  Jump  on  a  tram  at  the  Town  Hall 
and  bring  the  overall  along  here.  Your  mother  will 
not  object,  will  she?" 

"Of  course  not,"  cried  Dan.  "I'll  tell  her.  Am  I 
to  start  now?" 

"Yes,  right  away." 

Mrs.  Kerry  was  sewing  by  the  fire  in  the  dining 
room  when  her  son  came  in  with  the  news,  his  blue  eyes 
sparkling  excitedly.  She  nodded  her  head  slowly. 

"Ye'll  want  ye'r  Burberry  and  ye'r  thick  boots," 
she  declared,  "a  muffler,  too,  and  ye'r  oldest  cap.  I 
think  it's  madness  for  ye  to  go  out  on  such  a  night, 

K-...4-  " 

but 


KERRY'S  KID  99 

"Father  said  I  could,"  protested  the  boy. 

"He  says  so,  and  ye  shall  go,  but  I  think  it  madness 
a'  the  same." 

However,  some  ten  minutes  later  young  Kerry  set 
out,  keenly  resenting  the  woollen  muffler  which  he 
had  been  compelled  to  wear,  and  secretly  determined 
to  remove  it  before  mounting  the  tram.  Across  one 
arm  he  carried  the  glistening  overall  which  was  the 
Chief  Inspector's  constant  companion  on  wet  nights 
abroad.  The  fog  had  turned  denser,  and  ten  paces 
from  the  door  of  the  house  took  him  out  of  sight  of 
the  light  streaming  from  the  hallway. 

Mary  Kerry  well  knew  her  husband's  theories  about 
coddling  boys,  but  even  so  could  not  entirely  reconcile 
herself  to  the  present  expedition.  However,  closing 
the  door,  she  returned  philosophically  to  her  sewing, 
reflecting  that  little  harm  could  come  to  Dan  after 
all,  for  he  was  strong,  healthy,  and  intelligent. 

On  went  the  boy  through  the  mist,  whistling  merrily. 
Not  twenty  yards  from  the  house  a  coupe  was  drawn 
up,  and  by  the  light  of  one  of  its  lamps  a  man  was  con- 
sulting a  piece  of  paper  on  which,  presumably,  an 
address  was  written ;  for,  as  the  boy  approached,  the 
man  turned,  his  collar  pulled  up  about  his  face,  his 
hat  pulled  down. 

"Hallo !"  he  called.  "Can  you  please  tell  me  some- 
thing?" 

He  spoke  with  a  curious  accent,  unfamiliar  to  the 
boy.  "A  foreigner  of  some  kind,"  young  Kerry  de- 
termined. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  pausing. 


ioo  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"Will  you  please  read  and  tell  me  if  I  am  near 
this  place?"  the  man  continued,  holding  up  the  paper 
which  he  had  been  scrutinizing. 

Dan  stepped  forward  and  bent  over  it.  He  could 
not  make  out  the  writing,  and  bent  yet  more,  holding 
it  nearer  to  the  lamp.  At  which  moment  some  second 
person  neatly  pinioned  him  from  behind,  a  scarf  was 
whipped  about  his  head,  and,  kicking  furiously  but 
otherwise  helpless,  he  felt  himself  lifted  and  placed 
inside  the  car. 

The  muffler  had  been  thrown  in  such  fashion  about 
his  face  as  to  leave  one  eye  partly  free,  and  as  he  was 
lifted  he  had  a  momentary  glimpse  of  his  captors. 
With  a  thrill  of  real,  sickly  terror  he  realized  that  he 
was  in  the  hands  of  Chinamen! 

Perhaps  telepathically  this  spasm  of  fear  was  con- 
veyed to  his  father,  for  it  was  at  about  this  time  that 
the  latter  was  interviewing  Zani  Chada,  and  at  about 
this  time  that  Kerry  recognized,  underlying  the  other's 
words,  at  once  an  ill-concealed  suspense  and  a  threat. 
Then,  a  few  minutes  later,  had  come  the  three  strokes 
of  the  gong;  and  again  that  unreasonable  dread  had 
assailed  him,  perhaps  because  it  signalized  the  capture 
of  his  son,  news  of  which  had  been  immediately  tele- 
phoned to  Limehouse  by  Zani  Chada's  orders. 

Certain  it  is  that  Kerry  left  the  Eurasian's  house 
in  a  frame  of  mind  which  was  not  familiar  to  him. 
He  was  undecided  respecting  his  next  move.  A  deadly 
menace  underlay  Chada's  words. 

"Consult  your  wife,"  he  kept  muttering  to  himself. 
When  the  door  was  opened  for  him  by  the  Chinese 


KERRY'S  KID  101 

servant,  he  paused  a  moment  'before  going  out' into 
the  fog.  There  were  men  on  duty  at  the  back  and  at 
the  front  of  the  house.  Should  he  risk  all  and  raid 
the  place?  That  Lady  Rourke  was  captive  here  he 
no  longer  doubted.  But  it  was  equally  certain  that 
no  further  harm  would  come  to  her  at  the  hands  of 
her  captors,  since  she  had  been  traced  there  and  since 
Zani  Chada  was  well  aware  of  the  fact.  Of  the 
whereabouts  of  Lou  Chada  he  could  not  be  certain. 
If  he  was  in  the  house,  they  had  him. 

The  door  was  closed  by  the  Chinaman,  and  Kerry 
stood  out  in  the  darkness  of  the  dismal,  brick-walled 
street,  feeling  something  as  nearly  akin  to  dejection 
as  was  possible  in  one  of  his  mercurial  spirit.  Some- 
thing trickled  upon  the  brim  of  his  hat,  and,  raising 
his  head,  Kerry  detected  rain  upon  his  upturned  face. 
He  breathed  a  prayer  of  thankfulness.  This  would 
put  an  end  to  the  fog, 

He  began  to  walk  along  by  the  high  brick  wall, 
but  had  not  proceeded  far  before  a  muffled  figure 
arose  before  him  and  the  light  of  an  electric  torch  was 
shone  into  his  face. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Chief  Inspector!"  came  the  voice  of 
the  watcher. 

"It  is,"  rapped  Kerry.  "Unless  there  are  tunnels 
under  this  old  rat-hole,  I  take  it  the  men  on  duty  can 
cover  all  the  exits?" 

"All  the  main  exits,"  was  the  reply.  "But,  as  you 
say,  it's  a  strange  house,  and  Zani  Chada  has  a 
stranger  reputation." 

"Do  nothing  until  you  hear  from  me." 


102  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"Very  good,  Chief  Inspector." 

The  rain  now  was  definitely  conquering  the  fog, 
and  in  half  the  time  which  had  been  occupied  by  the 
outward  journey  Kerry  was  back  again  in  Limehouse 
police  station.  Unconsciously  he  had  been  hastening 
his  pace  with  every  stride,  urged  onward  by  an  un- 
accountable anxiety,  so  that  finally  he  almost  ran  into 
the  office  and  up  to  the  desk  where  the  telephone 
stood. 

Lifting  it,  he  called  his  own  number  and  stood 
tapping  his  foot,  impatiently  awaiting  the  reply. 
Presently  came  the  voice  of  the  operator :  "Have  they 
answered  yet?" 

"No."  ' 

"I  will  ring  them  again." 

Kerry's  anxiety  became  acute,  almost  unendurable; 
and  when  at  last,  after  repeated  attempts,  no  reply 
could  be  obtained  from  his  home,  he  replaced  the  re- 
ceiver and  leaned  for  a  moment  on  the  desk,  shaken 
with  such  a  storm  of  apprehension  as  he  had  rarely 
known.  He  turned  to  the  inspector  in  charge,  and: 

"Let  me  have  that  envelope  I  left  with  you,"  he 
directed.  "And  have  someone  'phone  for  a  taxi;  they 
are  to  keep  on  till  they  get  one.  Where  is  Sergeant 
Durham?" 

"At  the  mortuary." 

"Ah!" 

"Any  developments,  Chief  Inspector?" 

"Yes.  But  apart  from  keeping  a  close  watch  upon 
the  house  of  Zani  Chada  you  are  to  do  nothing  until 
you  hear  from  me  again." 


KERRY'S  KID  103 

"Very  good,"  said  the  inspector.  "Are  you  going 
to  wait  for  Durham's  report?" 

"No.  Directly  the  cab  arrives  I  am  going  to  wait 
for  nothing." 

Indeed,  he  paced  up  and  down  the  room  like  a  wild 
beast  caged,  while  call  after  call  was  sent  to  neighbour- 
ing cab  ranks,  for  a  long  time  without  result.  What 
did  it  mean,  his  wife's  failure  to  answer  the  telephone? 
It  might  mean  that  neither  she  nor  their  one  servant 
nor  Dan  was  in  the  house.  And  if  they  were  not  in 
the  house  at  this  hour  of  the  night,  where  could  they 
possibly  be?  This  it  might  mean,  or — something 
worse. 

A  thousand  and  one  possibilities,  hideous,  fantastic, 
appalling,  flashed  through  his  mind.  He  was  begin- 
ning to  learn  what  Zani  Chada  had  meant  when  he 
had  said:  "I  have  followed  your  career  with  in- 
terest." 

At  last  a  taxi  was  found,  and  the  man  instructed 
over  the  'phone  to  proceed  immediately  to  Limehouse 
station.  He  seemed  so  long  in  coming  that  when  at 
last  the  cab  was  heard  to  pause  outside,  Kerry  could 
not  trust  himself  to  speak  to  the  driver,  but  directed  a 
sergeant  to  give  him  the  address.  He  entered  silently 
and  closed  the  door. 

A  steady  drizzle  of  rain  was  falling.  It  had  al- 
ready dispersed  the  fog,  so  that  he  might  hope  with 
luck  to  be  home  within  the  hour.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  the  man  performed  the  journey  in  excellent  time, 
but  it  seemed  to  his  passenger  that  he  could  have 
walked  quicker,  such  was  the  gnawing  anxiety  within 


io4  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

him  and  the  fear  which  prompted  him  to  long  for 
wings. 

Instructing  the  cabman  to  wait,  Kerry  unlocked 
the  front  door  and  entered.  He  had  noted  a  light  in 
the  dining  room  window,  and  entering,  he  found  his 
wife  awaiting  him  there.  She  rose  as  he  entered,  with 
horror  in  her  comely  face. 

"Dan!"  she  whispered.  "Dan!  where  is  ye'r 
mackintosh?" 

"I  didn't  take  it,"  he  replied,  endeavouring  to  tell 
himself  that  his  apprehensions  had  been  groundless. 
"Buthowwasitthatyou  did  not  answer  the  telephone?" 

"What  do  ye  mean,  Dan?"  Mary  Kerry  stared, 
her  eyes  growing  wider  and  wider.  "The  boy  an- 
swered, Dan.  He  set  out  wi'  ye'r  mackintosh  full 
an  hour  and  a  half  since." 

"What!" 

The  truth  leaped  out  at  Kerry  like  an  enemy  out 
of  ambush. 

"Who  sent  that  message?" 

"Someone  frae  the  Yard,  to  tell  the  boy  to  bring 
ye'r  mackintosh  alone  at  once.  Dan!  Dan " 

She  advanced,  hands  outstretched,  quivering,  but 
Kerry  had  leaped  out  into  the  narrow  hallway.  He 
raised  the  telephone  receiver,  listened  for  a  moment, 
and  then  jerked  it  back  upon  the  hook. 

"Dead  line!"  he  muttered.  "Someone  has  been  at 
work  with  a  wire-cutter  outside  the  house!" 

His  wife  came  out  to  where  he  stood,  and,  clenching 
his  teeth  very  grimly,  he  took  her  in  his  arms.  She 
was  shaking  as  if  palsied. 


KERRY'S  KID  105 

"Mary  dear,"  he  said,  "pray  with  all  your  might 
that  I  am  given  strength  to  do  my  duty." 

She  looked  at  him  with  haggard,  tearless  eyes. 

"Tell  me  the  truth:  ha'  they  got  my  boy?" 

His  fingers  tightened  on  her  shoulders. 

"Don't  worry,"  he  said,  "and  don't  ask  me  to  stay 
to  explain.  When  I  come  back  I'll  have  Dan  with 
me!" 

He  trusted  himself  no  further,  but,  clapping  his  hat 
on  his  head,  walked  out  to  the  waiting  cab. 

"Back  to  Limehouse  police  station,"  he  directed 
rapidly. 

"Lor  lumme!"  muttered  the  taximan.  "Where 
are  you  goin*  to  after  that,  guv'nor?  It's  a  bit  off 
the  map." 

"I'm  going  to  hell!"  rapped  Kerry,  suddenly  thrust- 
ing his  red  face  very  near  to  that  of  the  speaker. 
"And  you're  going  to  drive  me!" 


VI 

THE  KNIGHT   ERRANT 

RECOGNIZING  the  superior  strength  of  his 
captors,  young  Kerry  soon  gave  up  struggling. 
The  thrill  of  his  first  real  adventure  entered 
into  his  blood.  He  remembered  that  he  was  the  son 
of  his  father,  and  he  realized,  being  a  quick-witted 
lad,  that  he  was  in  the  grip  of  enemies  of  his  father. 
The  panic  which  had  threatened  him  when  first  he  had 
recognized  that  he  was  in  the  hands  of  Chinese,  gave 
place  to  a  cold  rage — a  heritage  which  in  later  years 
was  to  make  him  a  dangerous  man. 

He  lay  quite  passively  in  the  grasp  of  someone 
who  held  him  fast,  and  learned,  by  breathing  quietly, 
that  the  presence  of  the  muffler  about  his  nose  and 
mouth  did  not  greatly  inconvenience  him.  There  was 
some  desultory  conversation  between  the  two  men  in 
the  car,  but  it  was  carried  on  in  an  odd,  sibilant 
language  which  the  boy  did  not  understand,  but  which 
he  divined  to  be  Chinese.  He  thought  how  every 
other  boy  in  the  school  would  envy  him,  and  the 
thought  was  stimulating,  nerving.  On  the  very  first 
day  of  his  holidays  he  was  become  the  central  figure 
of  a  Chinatown  drama. 

The  last  traces  of  fear  fled.  His  position  was  un- 

106 


KERRY'S  KID  107 

comfortable  and  his  limbs  were  cramped,  but  he 
resigned  himself,  with  something  almost  like  glad- 
ness, and  began  to  look  forward  to  that  which  lay 
ahead  with  a  zest  and  a  will  to  be  no  passive  instru- 
ment which  might  have  surprised  his  captors  could 
they  have  read  the  mind  of  their  captive. 

The  journey  seemed  almost  interminable,  but  young 
Kerry  suffered  it  in  stoical  silence  until  the  car  stopped 
and  he  was  lifted  and  carried  down  stone  steps  into 
some  damp,  earthy-smelling  place.  Some  distance 
was  traversed,  and  then  many  flights  of  stairs  were 
mounted,  some  bare  but  others  carpeted. 

Finally  he  was  deposited  in  a  chair,  and  as  he 
raised  his  hand  to  the  scarf,  which  toward  the  end  of 
the  journey  had  been  bound  more  tightly  about  his 
head  so  as  to  prevent  him  from  seeing  at  all,  he  heard 
a  door  closed  and  locked. 

The  scarf  was  quickly  removed.  And  Dan  found 
himself  in  a  low-ceilinged  attic  having  a  sloping  roof 
and  one  shuttered  window.  A  shadeless  electric  lamp 
hung  from  the  ceiling.  Excepting  the  cane-seated 
chair  in  which  he  had  been  deposited  and  a  certain 
amount  of  nondescript  lumber,  the  attic  was  unfur- 
nished. Dan  rapidly  considered  what  his  father  would 
have  done  in  the  circumstances. 

"Make  sure  that  the  door  is  locked,"  he  muttered. 

He  tried  it,  and  it  was  locked  beyond  any  shadow  of 
doubt. 

"The  window." 

Shutters  covered  it,  and  these  were  fastened  with 
a  padlock. 


io8  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

He  considered  this  padlock  attentively;  then,  draw- 
ing from  his  pocket  one  of  those  wonderful  knives 
which  are  really  miniature  tool-chests,  he  raised  from 
a  grove  the  screw-driver  which  formed  part  of  its 
equipment,  and  with  neatness  and  dispatch  unscrewed 
the  staple  to  which  the  padlock  was  attached ! 

A  moment  later  he  had  opened  the  shutters  and 
was  looking  out  into  the  drizzle  of  the  night. 

The  room  in  which  he  was  confined  was  on  the  third 
floor  of  a  dingy,  brick-built  house;  a  portion  of  some 
other  building  faced  him;  down  below  was  a  stone- 
paved  courtyard.  To  the  left  stood  a  high  wall,  and 
beyond  it  he  obtained  a  glimpse  of  other  dingy  build- 
ings. One  lighted  window  was  visible — a  square 
window  in  the  opposite  building,  from  which  amber 
light  shone  out. 

Somewhere  in  the  street  beyond  was  a  standard 
lamp.  He  could  detect  the  halo  which  it  cast  into  the 
misty  rain.  The  glass  was  very  dirty,  and  young 
Kerry  raised  the  sash,  admitting  a  draught  of  damp, 
cold  air  into  the  room.  He  craned  out,  looking  about 
him  eagerly. 

A  rainwater-pipe  was  within  reach  of  his  hand  on 
the  right  of  the  window  and,  leaning  out  still  farther, 
young  Kerry  saw  that  it  passed  beside  two  other, 
larger,  windows  on  the  floor  beneath  him.  Neither 
of  these  showed  any  light. 

Dizzy  heights  have  no  terror  for  healthy  youth. 
The  brackets  supporting  the  rain-pipe  were  a  sufficient 
staircase  for  the  agile  Dan,  a  more  slippery  prisoner 
than  the  famous  Baron  Trenck;  and,  discarding  his 


KERRY'S  KID  109 

muffler  and  his  Burberry,  he  climbed  out  upon  the  sill 
and  felt  with  his  thick-soled  boots  for  the  first  of  these 
footholds.  Clutching  the  ledge,  he  lowered  himself 
and  felt  for  the  next. 

Then  came  the  moment  when  he  must  trust  all  his 
weight  to  the  pipe.  Clenching  his  teeth,  he  risked  it, 
felt  for  and  found  the  third  angle,  and  then,  still 
clutching  the  pipe,  stood  for  a  moment  upon  the  ledge 
of  the  window  immediately  beneath  him.  He  was 
curious  respecting  the  lighted  window  of  the  neigh- 
bouring house;  and,  twisting  about,  he  bent,  peering 
across — and  saw  a  sight  which  arrested  his  progress. 

The  room  within  was  furnished  in  a  way  which 
made  him  gasp  with  astonishment.  It  was  like  an 
Eastern  picture,  he  thought.  Her  golden  hair  dis- 
hevelled and  her  hands  alternately  clenching  and  un- 
clenching, a  woman  whom  he  considered  to  be  most 
wonderfully  dressed  was  pacing  wildly  up  and  down, 
a  look  of  such  horror  upon  her  pale  face  that  Dan's 
heart  seemed  to  stop  beating  for  a  moment! 

Here  was  real  trouble  of  a  sort  which  appealed  to 
all  the  chivalry  in  the  boy's  nature.  He  considered 
the  window,  which  was  glazed  with  amber-coloured 
glass,  observed  that  it  was  sufficiently  open  to  enable 
him  to  slip  the  fastening  and  open  it  entirely  could 
he  but  reach  it.  And — yes! — there  was  a  rain-pipe! 

Climbing  down  to  the  yard,  he  looked  quickly  about 
him,  ran  across,  and  climbed  up  to  the  lighted  window. 
A  moment  later  he  had  pushed  it  widely  open. 

He  was  greeted  by  a  stifled  cry,  but,  cautiously 
transferring  his  weight  from  the  friendly  pipe  to  the 


1 1  o  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

ledge,  he  got  astride  of  it,  one  foot  in  the  room. 
Then,  by  exercise  of  a  monkey-like  agility,  he  wriggled 
his  head  and  shoulders  within. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  said  softly  and  reassuringly. 
"Fm  Dan  Kerry,  son  of  Chief  Inspector  Kerry.  Can 
I  be  of  any  assistance?" 

Her  hands  clasped  convulsively  together,  the 
woman  stood  looking  up  at  him. 

"Oh,  thank  God!"  said  the  captive.  "But  what 
are  you  going  to  do?  Can  you  get  me  out?" 

"Don't  worry,"  replied  Dan  confidently.  "Father 
and  I  can  manage  it  all  right!" 

He  performed  a  singular  contortion,  as  a  result  of 
which  his  other  leg  and  foot  appeared  inside  the  win- 
dow. Then,  twisting  around,  he  lowered  himself  and 
dropped  triumphantly  upon  a  cushioned  divan.  At 
that  moment  he  would  have  faced  a  cage  full  of  man- 
eating  tigers.  The  spirit  of  adventure  had  him  in  its 
grip.  He  stood  up,  breathing  rapidly,  his  crop  of 
red  hair  more  dishevelled  than  usual. 

Then,  before  he  could  stir  or  utter  any  protest,  the 
golden-haired  princess  whom  he  had  come  to  rescue 
stooped,  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  kissed 
him. 

"You  darling,  brave  boy!"  she  said.  "I  think  you 
have  saved  me  from  madness." 

Young  Kerry,  more  flushed  than  ever,  extricated 
himself,  and: 

"You're  not  out  of  the  mess  yet,"  he  protested. 
"The  only  difference  is  that  I'm  in  it  with  you!" 

"But  where  is  your  father?" 


KERRY'S  KID  in 

"I'm  looking  for  him." 

"What!" 

"Oh!  he's  about  somewhere,"  Dan  assured  her  con- 
fidently. 

"But,  but "  She  was  gazing  at  him  wide-eyed, 

"Didn't  he  send  you  here?" 

"You  bet  he  didn't,"  returned  young  Kerry.  "I 
came  here  on  my  own  accord,  and  when  I  go  you're 
coming  with  me.  I  can't  make  out  how  you  got  here, 
anyway.  Do  you  know  whose  house  this  is?" 

"Oh,  I  do,  I  do!" 

"Whose?" 

"It  belongs  to  a  man  called  Chada." 

"Chada?  Never  heard  of  him.  But  I  mean,  what 
part  of  London  is  it  in?" 

"Whatever  do  you  mean?  It  is  in  Limehouse,  I 
believe.  I  don't  understand.  You  came  here." 

"I  didn't,"  said  young  Kerry  cheerfully;  "I  was 
fetched!" 

"By  your  father?" 

"Not  on  your  life.  By  a  couple  of  Chinks!  I'll 
tell  you  something."  He  raised  his  twinkling  blue 
eyes.  "We  are  properly  up  against  it.  I  suppose 
you  couldn't  climb  down  a  rain-pipe?" 


VII 

RETRIBUTION 

IT  WAS  that  dark,  still,  depressing  hour  of  the 
night,  when  all  life  is  at  its  lowest  ebb.  In  the 
low,  strangely  perfumed  room  of  books  Zani 
Chada  sat  before  his  table,  his  yellow  hands  clutching 
the  knobs  on  his  chair  arms,  his  long,  inscrutable  eyes 
staring  unseeingly  before  him. 

Came  a  disturbance  and  the  sound  of  voices,  and 
Lou  Chada,  his  son,  stood  at  the  doorway.  He  still 
wore  his  evening  clothes,  but  he  no  longer  looked 
smart.  His  glossy  black  hair  was  dishevelled,  and 
his  handsome,  olive  face  bore  a  hunted  look.  Panic 
was  betoken  by  twitching  mouth  and  fear-bright  eyes. 
He  stopped,  glaring  at  his  father,  and : 

"Why  are  you  not  gone?"  asked  the  latter  sternly. 
"Do  you  wish  to  wreck  me  as  well  as  yourself?" 

"The  police  have  posted  a  man  opposite  Kwee's 
house.  I  cannot  get  out  that  way." 

"There  was  no  one  there  when  the  boy  was 
brought  in." 

"No,  but  there  is  now.  Father!"  He  took  a  step 
forward.  "I'm  trapped.  They  sha'n't  take  me.  You 
won't  let  them  take  me?" 

Zani  Chada  stirred  not  a  muscle,  but: 

112 


KERRY'S  KID  113 

"To-night,"  he  said,  "your  mad  passion  has  brought 
ruin  to  both  of  us.  For  the  sake  of  a  golden  doll  who 
is  not  worth  the  price  of  the  jewels  she  wears,  you  have 
placed  yourself  within  reach  of  the  hangman." 

"I  was  mad,  I  was  mad,"  groaned  the  other.  ' 

"But  I,  who  was  sane,  am  involved  in  the  con- 
sequences," retorted  his  father. 

"He  will  be  silent  at  the  price  of  the  boy's  life." 

"He  may  be,"  returned  Zani  Chada.  "I  hate  him, 
but  he  is  a  man.  Had  you  escaped,  he  might  have 
consented  to  be  silent.  Once  you  are  arrested,  noth- 
ing would  silence  him." 

"If  the  case  is  tried  it  will  ruin  Pat's  reputation." 

"What  a  pity!"  said  Zani  Chada. 

In  some  distant  part  of  the  house  a  gong  was 
struck  three  times. 

"Go,"  commanded  his  father.  "Remain  at  Kwee's 
house  until  I  send  for  you.  Let  Ah  Fang  go  to  the 
room  above  and  see  that  the  woman  is  silent.  An 
outcry  would  ruin  our  last  chance." 

Lou  Chada  raised  his  hands,  brushing  the  hair 
back  from  his  wet  forehead,  then,  staring  haggardly 
at  his  father,  turned  and  ran  from  the  room. 

A  minute  later  Kerry  was  ushered  in  by  the  Chinese 
servant.  The  savage  face  was  set  like  a  mask. 
Without  removing  his  hat,  he  strode  across  to  the 
table  and  bent  down  so  that  fierce,  wide-open  blue  eyes 
stared  closely  into  long,  half-closed  black  ones. 

"I've  got  one  thing  to  say,"  explained  Kerry  huskily. 
"Whatever  the  hangman  may  do  to  your  slimy  son, 
and  whatever  happens  to  the  little  blonde  fool  he 


ii4  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

kidnapped,  if  you've  laid  a  hand  on  my  kid  I'll  kick 
you  to  death,  if  I  follow  you  round  the  world  to  do  it." 

Zani  Chada  made  no  reply,  but  his  knuckles  gleamed, 
so  tightly  did  he  clutch  the  knobs  on  the  chair  arms. 
Kerry's  savagery  would  have  awed  any  man,  even 
though  he  had  supposed  it  to  be  the  idle  threat  of  a 
passionate  man.  But  Zani  Chada  knew  all  men,  and 
he  knew  this  one.  When  Daniel  Kerry  declared  that 
in  given  circumstances  he  would  kick  Zani  Chada  to 
death,  he  did  not  mean  that  he  would  shoot  him, 
strangle  him,  or  even  beat  him  with  his  fists;  he  meant 
precisely  what  he  said — that  he  would  kick  him  to 
death — and  Zani  Chada  knew  it. 

Thus  there  were  some  moments  of  tense  silence 
during  which  the  savage  face  of  the  Chief  Inspector 
drew  even  closer  to  the  gaunt,  yellow  face  of  the 
Eurasian.  Finally: 

"Listen  only  for  one  moment,"  said  Zani  Chada. 
His  voice  had  lost  its  guttural  intonation.  He  spoke 
softly,  sibilantly.  "I,  too,  am  a  father " 

"Don't  mince  words!"  shouted  Kerry.  "You've 
kidnapped  my  boy.  If  I  have  to  tear  your  house 
down  brick  by  brick  I'll  find  him.  And  if  you've  hurt 
one  hair  of  his  head — you  know  what  to  expect!" 

He  quivered.  The  effort  of  suppression  which  he 
had  imposed  upon  himself  was  frightful  to  witness. 
Zani  Chada,  student  of  men,  knew  that  in  despite  of 
his  own  physical  strength  and  of  the  hidden  resources 
at  his  beck,  he  stood  nearer  to  primitive  retribution 
than  he  had  ever  done.  Yet:  ' 

"I  understand,"  he  continued.      "But  you  do  not 


KERRY'S  KID  115 

understand.  Your  boy  is  not  in  this  house.  Oh! 
violence  cannot  avail!  It  can  only  make  his  loss 
irreparable." 

Kerry,  nostrils  distended,  eyes  glaring  madly,  bent 
over  him. 

"Your  scallywag  of  a  son,"  he  said  hoarsely,  uhas 
gone  one  step  too  far.  His  adventures  have  twice 
before  ended  in  murder — and  you  have  covered  him. 
This  time  you  can't  do  it.  I'm  not  to  be  bought. 
We've  stood  for  the  Far  East  in  London  long  enough. 
Your  cub  hangs  this  time.  Get  me?  There'll  be  no 
bargaining.  The  woman's  reputation  won't  stop  me. 
My  kid's  danger  won't  stop  me.  But  if  you  try  to  use 
him  as  a  lever  I'll  boot  you  to  your  stinking  yellow 
paradise  and  they'll  check  you  in  as  pulp." 

"You  speak  of  three  deaths,"  murmured  Zani  Chada. 

Kerry  clenched  his  teeth  so  tightly  that  his  maxillary 
muscles  protruded  to  an  abnormal  degree.  He  thrust 
his  clenched  fists  into  his  coat  pockets. 

"We  all  follow  our  vocations  in  life,"  resumed  the 
Eurasian,  "to  the  best  of  our  abilities.  But  is  pro- 
fessional kudos  not  too  dearly  bought  at  the  price  of 
a  loved  one  lost  for  ever?  A  far  better  bargain 
would  be,  shall  we  say,  ten  thousand  pounds,  as  the 
price  of  a  silk  handkerchief " 

Kerry's  fierce  blue  eyes  closed  for  a  fraction  of  a 
second.  Yet,  in  that  fraction  of  a  second,  he  had 
visualized  some  of  the  things  which  ten  thousand 
pounds — a  sum  he  could  never  hope  to  possess — 
would  buy.  He  had  seen  his  home,  as  he  would  have 
it — and  he  had  seen  Dan  there,  safe  and  happy  at  his 


1 1 6  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

mother's  side.  Was  he  entitled  to  disregard  the  hap- 
piness of  his  wife,  the  life  of  his  boy,  the  honourable 
name  of  Sir  Noel  Rourke,  because  an  outcast  like 
Peters  had  come  to  a  fitting  end — because  a  treacher- 
ous Malay  and  a  renegade  Chinaman  had,  earlier, 
gone  the  same  way,  sped,  as  he  suspected,  by  the  same 
hand? 

"My  resources  are  unusual,"  added  Chada,  speak- 
ing almost  in  a  whisper.  "I  have  cash  to  this  amount 
in  my  safe " 

So  far  he  had  proceeded  when  he  was  interrupted; 
and  the  cause  of  the  interruption  was  this : 

A  few  moments  earlier  another  dramatic  encounter 
had  taken  place  in  a  distant  part  of  the  house.  Kerry 
Junior,  having  scientifically  tested  all  the  possible 
modes  of  egress  from  the  room  in  which  Lady  Pat  was 
confined,  had  long  ago  desisted,  and  had  exhausted 
his  ingenuity  in  plans  which  discussion  had  proved  to 
be  useless.  In  spite  of  the  novelty  and  the  danger  of 
his  situation,  nature  was  urging  her  laws.  He  was 
growing  sleepy.  The  crowning  tragedy  had  been  the 
discovery  that  he  could  not  regain  the  small,  square 
window  set  high  in  the  wall  from  which  he  had 
dropped  into  this  luxurious  prison.  Now,  as  the  two 
sat  side  by  side  upon  a  cushioned  divan,  the  woman's 
arm  about  the  boy's  shoulders,  they  were  startled  to 
hear,  in  the  depths  of  the  house,  three  notes  of  a 
gong. 

Young  Kerry's  sleepiness  departed.  He  leapt  to 
his  feet  as  though  electrified. 

"What  was  that?" 


KERRY'S  KID  117 

Theia  was  something  horrifying  in  those  gong 
notes  in  the  stillness  of  the  night.  Lady  Pat's  beauti- 
ful eyes  grew  glassy  with  fear. 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Dan.  "It  seemed  to  come 
from  below." 

He  ran  to  the  door,  drew  the  curtain  aside,  and 
pressed  his  ear  against  one  of  the  panels,  listening 
intently.  As  he  did  so,  his  attitude  grew  tense,  his 
expression  changed,  then : 

"We're  saved!"  he  cried,  turning  a  radiant  face  to 
the  woman.  "I  heard  my  father's  voice!" 

"Oh,  are  you  sure,  are  you  sure?" 

"Absolutely  sure!" 

He  bent  to  press  his  ear  to  the  panel  again,  when 
a  stifled  cry  from  his  companion  brought  him  swiftly 
to  his  feet.  The  second  door  in  the  room  had  opened 
silently,  and  a  small  Chinaman,  who  carried  himself 
with  a  stoop,  had  entered,  and  now,  a  menacing  ex- 
pression upon  his  face,  was  quickly  approaching  the 
boy. 

What  he  had  meant  to  do  for  ever  remained  in 
doubt,  for  young  Kerry,  knowing  his  father  to  be  in 
the  house  and  seeing  an  open  door  before  him,  took 
matters  into  his  own  hands. 

At  the  moment  that  the  silent  Chinaman  was  about 
to  throw  his  arms  about  him,  the  pride  of  the  junior 
school  registered  a  most  surprising  left  accurately  on 
the  point  of  Ah  Fang's  jaw,  following  it  up  by  a  wilful 
transgression  of  Queensberry  rules  in  the  form  of  a 
stomach  punch  which  temporarily  decided  the  issue. 
Then: 


1 1 8  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"Quick!  quick!"  he  cried  breathless!/,  grasping 
Lady  Pat's  hand.  "This  is  where  we  run!" 

In  such  fashion  was  Zani  Chada  interrupted,  the 
interruption  taking  the  form  of  a  sudden,  shrill  out- 
cry: 

uDad!  dad!     Where  are  you,  dad?" 

Kerry  spun  about  as  a  man  galvanized.  His  face 
became  transfigured. 

"This  way,  Dan!"  he  cried.     "This  way,  boy!" 

Came  a  clatter  of  hurrying  feet,  and  into  the  low, 
perfumed  room  burst  Dan  Kerry,  junior,  tightly 
clasping  the  hand  of  a  pale-faced,  dishevelled  woman 
in  evening  dress.  It  was  Lady  Rourke ;  and  although 
she  seemed  to  be  in  a  nearly  fainting  condition,  Dan 
dragged  her,  half  running,  into  the  room. 

Kerry  gave  one  glance  at  the  pair,  then,  instantly, 
he  turned  to  face  Zani  Chada.  The  latter,  like  a  man 
of  stone,  sat  in  his  carved  chair,  eyes  nearly  closed. 
The  Chief  Inspector  whipped  out  a  whistle  and  raised 
it  to  his  lips.  He  blew  three  blasts  upon  it. 

From  one — two — three — four  points  around  the 
house  the  signal  was  answered. 

Zani  Chada  fully  opened  his  long,  basilisk  eyes. 

"You  win,  Chief  Inspector,"  he  said.  "But  much 
may  be  done  by  clever  counsel.  If  all  fails " 

"Well?"  rapped  Kerry  fiercely,  at  the  same  time 
throwing  his  arm  around  the  boy. 

"I  may  continue  to  take  an  interest  in  your 
affairs." 

A  tremendous  uproar  arose,  within  and  without  the 
house.  The  police  were  raiding  the  place.  Lady 


KERRY'S  KID  119 

Rourke  sank  down,  slowly,  almost  at  the  Eurasian's 
feet. 

But  Chief  Inspector  Kerry  experienced  an  unfamiliar 
chill  as  his  uncompromising  stare  met  the  cold  hatred 
which  blazed  out  of  the  black  eyes,  narrowed,  now, 
and  serpentine,  of  Zani  Chada. 


THE  PIGTAIL  OF  HI  WING  HO 


THE  PIGTAIL  OF  HI  WING  HO 
I 

HOW  I  OBTAINED  IT 

E \VING  the  dock  gates  behind  me  I  tramped 
through  the  steady  drizzle,  going  parallel  with 
the  river  and  making  for  the  Chinese  quarter. 
The  hour  was  about  half-past  eleven  on  one  of  those 
September  nights  when,  in  such  a  locality  as  this,  a 
stifling  quality  seems  to  enter  the  atmosphere,  render- 
ing it  all  but  unbreathable.  A  mist  floated  over  the 
river,  and  it  was  difficult  to  say  if  the  rain  was  still 
falling,  indeed,  or  if  the  ample  moisture  upon  my 
garments  was  traceable  only  to  the  fog.  Sounds  were 
muffled,  lights  dimmed,  and  the  frequent  hooting  of 
sirens  from  the  river  added  another  touch  of  weird- 
ness  to  the  scene. 

Even  when  the  peculiar  duties  of  my  friend,  Paul 
Harley,  called  him  away  from  England,  the  lure  of 
this  miniature  Orient  which  I  had  first  explored  under 
his  guidance,  often  called  me  from  my  chambers.  In 
the  house  with  the  two  doors  in  Wade  Street,  Lime- 
house,  I  would  discard  the  armour  of  respectability, 
and,  dressed  in  a  manner  unlikely  to  provoke  comment 
in  dockland,  would  haunt  those  dreary  ways  sometimes 
from  midnight  until  close  upon  dawn.  Yet,  well  as  I 

123 


i24  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

knew  the  district  and  the  strange  and  often  dangerous 
creatures  lurking  in  its  many  burrows,  I  experienced 
a  chill  partly  physical  and  partly  of  apprehension 
to-night;  indeed,  strange  though  it  may  sound,  I  hast- 
ened my  footsteps  in  order  the  sooner  to  reach  the 
low  den  for  which  I  was  bound — Malay  Jack's — a 
spot  marked  plainly  on  the  crimes-map  and  which  few 
respectable  travellers  would  have  regarded  as  a  haven 
of  refuge. 

But  the  chill  of  the  adjacent  river,  and  some  quality 
of  utter  desolation  which  seemed  to  emanate  from  the 
deserted  wharves  and  ramshackle  buildings  about  me, 
were  driving  me  thither  now;  for  I  knew  that  human 
companionship,  of  a  sort,  and  a  glass  of  good  liquor 
— from  a  store  which  the  Customs  would  have  been 
happy  to  locate — awaited  me  there.  I  might  chance, 
too,  upon  Durham  or  Wessex,  of  New  Scotland  Yard, 
both  good  friends  of  mine,  or  even  upon  the  Terror 
of  Chinatown,  Chief  Inspector  Kerry,  a  man  for 
whom  I  had  an  esteem  which  none  of  his  ungracious 
manners  could  diminish. 

I  was  just  about  to  turn  to  the  right  into  a  narrow 
and  nameless  alley,  lying  at  right  angles  to  the 
Thames,  when  I  pulled  up  sharply,  clenching  my  fists 
and  listening. 

A  confused  and  continuous  sound,  not  unlike  that 
which  might  be  occasioned  by  several  large  and  savage 
hounds  at  close  grips,  was  proceeding  out  of  the 
darkness  ahead  of  me;  a  worrying,  growling,  and 
scuffling  which  presently  I  identified  as  human, 
.although  in  fact  it  was  animal  enough.  A  moment  I 


THE  PIGTAIL  OF  HI  WING  HO        125 

hesitated,  then,  distinguishing  among  the  sounds  of 
conflict  an  unmistakable,  though  subdued,  cry  for  help, 
I  leaped  forward  and  found  myself  in  the  midst  of 
the  melee. 

This  was  taking  place  in  the  lee  of  a  high,  dilapi- 
dated brick  wall.  A  lamp  in  a  sort  of  iron  bracket 
spluttered  dimly  above  on  the  right,  but  the  scene  of 
the  conflict  lay  in  densest  shadow,  so  that  the  figures 
were  indistinguishable. 

"Help!     By  Gawd!  they're  strangling  me " 

From  almost  at  my  feet  the  cry  arose  and  was 
drowned  in  Chinese  chattering.  But  guided  by  it  I 
now  managed  to  make  out  that  the  struggle  in  pro- 
gress waged  between  a  burly  English  sailorman  and 
two  lithe  Chinese.  The  yellow  men  seemed  to  have 
gained  the  advantage  and  my  course  was  clear. 

A  straight  right  on  the  jaw  of  the  Chinaman  who 
was  engaged  in  endeavouring  to  throttle  the  victim 
laid  him  prone  in  the  dirty  roadway.  His  companion, 
who  was  holding  the  wrist  of  the  recumbent  man, 
sprang  upright  as  though  propelled  by  a  spring.  I 
struck  out  at  him  savagely.  He  uttered  a  shrill 
scream  not  unlike  that  of  a  stricken  hare,  and  fled  so 
rapidly  that  he  seemed  to  melt  in  the  mist. 

"Gawd  bless  you,  mate!"  came  chokingly  from  the 
ground — and  the  rescued  man,  extricating  himself 
from  beneath  the  body  of  his  stunned  assailant,  rose 
unsteadily  to  his  feet  and  lurched  toward  me. 

As  I  had  surmised,  he  was  a  sailor,  wearing  a  rough, 
blue-serge  jacket  and  having  his  greasy  trousers  thrust 
into  heavy  seaboots — by  which  I  judged  that  he  was 


126  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

but  newly  come  ashore.  He  stooped  and  picked  up 
his  cap.  It  was  covered  in  mud,  as  were  the  rest  of 
his  garments,  but  he  brushed  it  with  his  sleeve  as 
though  it  had  been  but  slightly  soiled  and  clapped  it 
on  his  head. 

He  grasped  my  hand  in  a  grip  of  iron,  peering 
into  my  face,  and  his  breath  was  eloquent. 

"I'd  had  one  or  two,  mate,"  he  confided  huskily 
(the  confession  was  unnecessary).  "It  was  them  two 
in  the  Blue  Anchor  as  did  it;  if  I  'adn't  'ad  them  last 
two,  I  could  'ave  broke  up  them  Chinks  with  one  'and 
tied  behind  me." 

"That's  all  right,"  I  said  hastily,  "but  what  are  we 
going  to  do  about  this  Chink  here?"  I  added,  en- 
deavouring at  the  same  time  to  extricate  my  hand 
from  the  vise-like  grip  in  which  he  persistently  held  it. 
"He  hit  the  tiles  pretty  heavy  when  he  went  down." 

As  if  to  settle  my  doubts,  the  recumbent  figure 
suddenly  arose  and  without  a  word  fled  into  the  dark- 
ness and  was  gone  like  a  phantom.  My  new  friend 
made  no  attempt  to  follow,  but: 

"You  can't  kill  a  bloody  Chink,"  he  confided,  still 
clutching  my  hand;  "it  ain't  'umanly  possible.  It's 
easier  to  kill  a  cat.  Come  along  o'  me  and  'ave  one; 
then  I'll  tell  you  somethink.  I'll  put  you  on  some- 
think,  I  will." 

With  surprising  steadiness  of  gait,  considering  the 
liquid  cargo  he  had  aboard,  the  man,  releasing  my 
hand  and  now  seizing  me  firmly  by  the  arm,  confidently 
led  me  by  divers  narrow  ways,  which  I  knew,  to  a 
little  beerhouse  frequented  by  persons  of  his  class. 


THE  PIGTAIL  OF  HI  WING  HO        127 

My  own  attire  was  such  as  to  excite  no  suspicion  in 
these  surroundings,  and  although  I  considered  that 
my  acquaintance  had  imbibed  more  than  enough  for 
one  night,  I  let  him  have  his  own  way  in  order  that 
I  might  learn  the  story  which  he  seemed  disposed  to 
confide  in  me.  Settled  in  the  corner  of  the  beerhouse 
— which  chanced  to  be  nearly  empty — with  portentous 
pewters  before  us,  the  conversation  was  opened  by  my 
new  friend: 

"I've  been  paid  off  from  the  Jupiter — Samuelson's 
Planet  Line,"  he  explained.     "What  I  am  is  a  fire- 


man." 


"She  was  from  Singapore  to  London?"  I  asked. 

"She  was,"  he  replied,  "and  it  was  at  Suez  it 
'appened — at  Suez." 

I  did  not  interrupt  him. 

"I  was  ashore  at  Suez — we  all  was,  owin'  to  a  'itch 
with  the  canal  company — a  matter  of  money,  I  may 
say.  They  make  yer  pay  before  they'll  take  yer 
through.  Do  you  know  that?" 

I  nodded. 

"Suez  is  a  place,"  he  continued,  "where  they  don't 
sell  whisky,  only  poison.  Was  you  ever  at  Suez?" 

Again  I  nodded,  being  most  anxious  to  avoid  divert- 
ing the  current  of  my  friend's  thoughts. 

"Well,  then,"  he  continued,  "you  know  Greek 
Jimmy's — and  that's  where  I'd  been." 

I  did  not  know  Greek  Jimmy's,  but  I  thought  it 
unnecessary  to  mention  the  fact. 

"It  was  just  about  this  time  on  a  steamin'  'ot 
night  as  I  come  out  of  Jimmy's  and  started  for  the 


128  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

ship.  I  was  walkin'  along  the  Waghorn  Quay,  same 
as  I  might  be  walkin'  along  to-night,  all  by  myself — 
bit  of  a  list  to  port  but  nothing  much — full  o'  joy  an' 
happiness,  'appy  an'  free — 'appy  an'  free.  Just  like 
you  might  have  noticed  to-night,  I  noticed  a  knot  of 
Chinks  scrappin'  on  the  ground  all  amongst  the  dust 
right  in  front  of  me.  I  rammed  in,  windmillin'  all 
round  and  knocking  'em  down  like  skittles.  Seemed 
to  me  there  was  about  ten  of  'em,  but  allowin'  for 
Jimmy's  whisky,  maybe  there  wasn't  more  than  three. 
Anyway,  they  all  shifted  and  left  me  standin'  there  in 
the  empty  street  with  this  'ere  in  my  'and." 

At  that,  without  more  ado,  he  thrust  his  hand  deep 
into  some  concealed  pocket  and  jerked  out  a  Chinese 
pigtail,  which  had  been  severed,  apparently  some 
three  inches  from  the  scalp,  by  a  clean  cut.  My  ac- 
quaintance, with  somewhat  bleared  eyes  glistening  in 
appreciation  of  his  own  dramatic  skill — for  I  could 
not  conceal  my  surprise — dangled  it  before  me  trium- 
phantly. 

"Which  of  'em  it  belong  to,"  he  continued,  thrust- 
ing it  into  another  pocket  and  drumming  loudly  on 
the  counter  for  more  beer,  "I  can't  say,  'cos  I  don't 
know.  But  that  ain't  all." 

The  tankards  being  refilled  and  my  friend  having 
sampled  the  contents  of  his  own : 

"That  ain't  all,"  he  continued.  "I  thought  I'd 
keep  it  as  a  sort  of  relic,  like.  What  'appened?  I'll 
tell  you.  Amongst  the  crew  there's  three  Chinks — 
see?  We  ain't  through  the  canal  before  one  of  'em,  a 
new  one  to  me — Li  Ping  is  his  name — offers  me  five 


THE  PIGTAIL  OF  HI  WING  HO        129 

bob  for  the  pigtail,  which  he  sees  me  looking  at  one 
mornin'.  I  give  him  a  punch  on  the  nose  an'  'e  don't 
renew  the  offer:  but  that  night  (we're  layin'  at  Port 
Said)  'e  tries  to  pinch  it!  I  dam'  near  broke  his 
neck,  and  'e  don't  try  any  more.  To-night" — he 
extended  his  right  arm  forensically — "a  deppitation 
of  Chinks  waits  on  me  at  the  dock  gates;  they  explains 
as  from  a  patriotic  point  of  view  they  feels  it  to  be 
their  dooty  to  buy  that  pigtail  off  of  me,  and  they  bids 
a  quid,  a  bar  of  gold — a  Jimmy  o'  Goblin!" 

He  snapped  his  fingers  contemptuously  and  emptied 
his  pewter.  A  sense  of  what  was  coming  began  to 
dawn  on  me.  That  the  uhold-up"  near  the  riverside 
formed  part  of  the  scheme  was  possible,  and,  reflect- 
ing on  my  rough  treatment  of  the  two  Chinamen,  I 
chuckled  inwardly.  Possibly,  however,  the  scheme 
had  germinated  in  my  acquaintance's  mind  merely  as 
a  result  of  an  otherwise  common  assault,  of  a  kind  not 
unusual  in  these  parts,  but,  whether  elaborate  or  com- 
paratively simple,  that  the  story  of  the  pigtail  was  a 
"plant"  designed  to  reach  my  pocket,  seemed  a  reason- 
able hypothesis. 

"I  told  him  to  go  to  China,"  concluded  the  object 
of  my  suspicion,  again  rapping  upon  the  counter,  "and 
you  see  what  come  of  it.  All  I  got  to  say  is  this:  If 
they're  so  bloody  patriotic,  I  says  one  thing:  I  ain't 
the  man  to  stand  in  their  way.  You  done  me  a  good 
turn  to-night,  mate;  I'm  doing  you  one.  'Ere's  the 
bloody  pigtail,  'ere's  my  empty  mug.  Fill  the  mug 
and  the  pigtail's  yours.  It's  good  for  a  quid  at  the 
dock  gates  any  day!" 


130  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

My  suspicions  vanished;  my  interest  arose  to  boiling- 
point.  I  refilled  my  acquaintance's  mug,  pressed  a 
sovereign  upon  him  (in  honesty  I  must  confess  that 
he  was  loath  to  take  it),  and  departed  with  the  pigtail 
coiled  neatly  in  an  inner  pocket  of  my  jacket.  I 
entered  the  house  in  Wade  Street  by  the  side  door, 
and  half  an  hour  later  let  myself  out  by  the  front 
door,  having  cast  off  my  dockland  disguise. 


II 

HOW  I  LOST  IT 

IT  WAS  not  until  the  following  evening  that  I 
found  leisure  to  examine  my  strange  acquisition, 
for   affairs   of  more   immediate   importance   en- 
grossed my  attention.     But  at   about  ten  o'clock  I 
seated  myself  at  my  table,  lighted  the  lamp,  and  tak- 
ing out  the  pigtail  from  the  table  drawer,  placed  it  on 
the  blotting-pad  and  began  to  examine  it  with  the 
greatest  curiosity,  for  few  Chinese  affect  the  pigtail 
nowadays. 

I  had  scarcely  commenced  my  examination,  how- 
ever, when  it  was  dramatically  interrupted.  The  door 
bell  commenced  to  ring  jerkily.  I  stood  up,  and  as  I 
did  so  the  ringing  ceased  and  in  its  place  came  a 
muffled  beating  on  the  door.  I  hurried  into  the  pas- 
sage as  the  bell  commenced  ringing  again,  and  I  had 
almost  reached  the  door  when  once  more  the  ringing 
ceased;  but  now  I  could  hear  a  woman's  voice,  low 
but  agitated: 

"Open  the  door!     Oh,  for  God's  sake  be  quick!" 

Completely  mystified,  and  not  a  little  alarmed,  I 

threw  open  the  door,  and  in  there  staggered  a  woman 

heavily  veiled,  so  that  I  could  see  little  of  her  features, 

but  by  the  lines  of  her  figure  I  judged  her  to  be  young. 


132  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

Uttering  a  sort  of  moan  of  terror  she  herself  closed 
the  door,  and  stood  with  her  back  to  it,  watching  me 
through  the  thick  veil,  while  her  breast  rose  and  fell 
tumultuously. 

"Thank  God  there  was  someone  at  home!"  she 
gasped. 

I  think  I  may  say  with  justice  that  I  had  never 
been  so  surprised  in  my  life;  every  particular  of  the 
incident  marked  it  as  unique — set  it  apart  from  the 
episodes  of  everyday  life. 

"Madam,"  I  began  doubtfully,  "you  seem  to  be 
much  alarmed  at  something,  and  if  I  can  be  of  any 
assistance  to  you " 

"You  have  saved  my  life!"  she  whispered,  and 
pressed  one  hand  to  her  bosom.  "In  a  moment  I  will 
explain." 

"Won't  you  rest  a  little  after  your  evidently  alarm- 
ing experience?"  I  suggested. 

My  strange  visitor  nodded,  without  speaking,  and  I 
conducted  her  to  the  study  which  I  had  just  left,  and 
placed  the  most  comfortable  arm-chair  close  beside  the 
table  so  that  as  I  sat  I  might  study  this  woman  who  so 
strangely  had  burst  in  upon  me.  I  even  tilted  the 
shaded  lamp,  artlessly,  a  trick  I  had  learned  from 
Harley,in  order  that  the  light  might  fall  upon  her  face. 

She  may  have  detected  this  device;  I  know  not; 
but  as  if  in  answer  to  its  challenge,  she  raised  her 
gloved  hands  and  unfastened  the  heavy  veil  which  had 
concealed  her  features. 

Thereupon  I  found  myself  looking  into  a  pair  of 
lustrous  black  eyes  whose  almond  shape  was  that  of 


THE  PIGTAIL  OF  HI  WING  HO        133 

the  Orient;  I  found  myself  looking  at  a  woman  who, 
since  she  was  evidently  a  Jewess,  was  probably  no  older 
than  eighteen  or  nineteen,  but  whose  beauty  was  ripely 
voluptuous,  who  might  fittingly  have  posed  for  Salome, 
who,  despite  her  modern  fashionable  garments,  at 
once  suggested  to  my  mind  the  wanton  beauty  of  the 
daughter  of  Herodias. 

I  stared  at  her  silently  for  a  time,  and  presently 
her  full  lips  parted  in  a  slow  smile.  My  ideas  were 
diverted  into  another  channel. 

"You  have  yet  to  tell  me  what  alarmed  you,"  I  said 
in  a  low  voice,  but  as  courteously  as  possible,  uand  if 
I  can  be  of  any  assistance  in  the  matter." 

My  visitor  seemed  to  recollect  her  fright — or  the 
necessity  for  simulation.  The  pupils  of  her  fine  eyes 
seemed  to  grow  larger  and  darker;  she  pressed  her 
white  teeth  into  her  lower  lips,  and  resting  her  hands 
upon  the  table  leaned  toward  me. 

"I  am  a  stranger  to  London,"  she  began,  now  ex- 
hibiting a  certain  diffidence,  "and  to-night  I  was  look- 
ing for  the  chambers  of  Mr.  Raphael  Philips  of  Figtree 
Court." 

"This  is  Figtree  Court,"  I  said,  "but  I  know  of  no 
Mr.  Raphael  Philips  who  has  chambers  here." 

The  black  eyes  met  mine  despairingly. 
•    "But  I  am  positive  of  the  address!"  protested  my 
beautiful  but  strange  caller — from  her  left  glove  she 
drew  out  a  scrap  of  paper,  "here  it  is." 

I  glanced  at  the  fragment,  upon  which,  in  a  woman,s 
hand  the  words  were  pencilled:  "Mr.  Raphael  Philips, 
36-b  Figtree  Court,  London." 


134  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

I  stared  at  my  visitor,  deeply  mystified. 

"These  chambers  are  36-b!"  I  said.  "But  I  am  not 
Raphael  Philips,  nor  have  I  ever  heard  of  him.  My 
name  is  Malcolm  Knox.  There  is  evidently  some 
mistake,  but" — returning  the  slip  of  paper — "pardon 
me  if  I  remind  you,  I  have  yet  to  learn  the  cause  of 
your  alarm." 

"I  was  followed  across  the  court  and  up  the  stairs." 

"Followed!     By  whom?" 

"By  a  dreadful-looking  man,  chattering  in  some 
tongue  I  did  not  understand!" 

My  amazement  was  momentarily  growing  greater. 

"What  kind  of  a  man?"  I  demanded  rather 
abruptly. 

"A  yellow-faced  man — remember  I  could  only  just 
distinguish  him  in  the  darkness  on  the  stairway,  and 
see  little..more  of  him  than  his  eyes  at  that,  and  his 
ugly  gleaming  teeth — oh!  it  was  horrible!" 

"You  astound  me,"  I  said;  "the  thing  is  utterly  in- 
comprehensible." I  switched  off  the  light  of  the  lamp. 
"I'll  see  if  there's  any  sign  of  him  in  the  court  below." 

"Oh,  don't  leave  me !  For  heaven's  sake  don't 
leave  me  alone!" 

She  clutched  my  arm  in  the  darkness. 

"Have  no  fear;  I  merely  propose  to  look  out  from 
this  window." 

Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  I  peered  down  into 
the  court  below.  It  was  quite  deserted.  The  night 
was  a  very  dark  one,  and  there  were  many  patches  of 
shadow  in  which  a  man  might  have  lain  concealed. 

"I  can  see  no  one,"  I  said,  speaking  as  confidently 


THE  PIGTAIL  OF  HI  WING  HO        135 

as  possible,  and  relighting  the  lamp,  "if  I  call  a  cab 
for  you  and  see  you  safely  into  it,  you  will  have  noth- 
ing to  fear,  I  think." 

"I  have  a  cab  waiting,"  she  replied,  and  lowering 
the  veil  she  stood  up  to  go. 

"Kindly  allow  me  to  see  you  to  it.  I  am  sorry  you 
have  been  subjected  to  this  annoyance,  especially  as 
you  have  not  attained  the  object  of  your  visit." 

"Thank  you  so  much  for  your  kindness;  there  must 
be  some  mistake  about  the  address,  of  course." 

She  clung  to  my  arm  very  tightly  as  we  descended 
the  stairs,  and  often  glanced  back  over  her  shoulder 
affrightedly,  as  we  crossed  the  court.  There  was  not 
a  sign  of  anyone  about,  however,  and  I  could  not  make 
up  my  mind  whether  the  story  of  the  yellow  man  was 
a  delusion  or  a  fabrication.  I  inclined  to  the  latter 
theory,  but  the  object  of  such  a  deception  was  more 
difficult  to  determine. 

Sure  enough,  a  taxicab  was  waiting  at  the  entrance 
to  the  court;  and  my  visitor,  having  seated  herself 
within,  extended  her  hand  to  me,  and  even  through 
the  thick  veil  I  could  detect  her  brilliant  smile. 

"Thank  you  so  much,  Mr.  Knox,"  she  said,  "and 
a  thousand  apologies.  I  am  sincerely  sorry  to  have 
given  you  all  this  trouble." 

The  cab  drove  off.  For  a  moment  I  stood  looking 
after  it,  in  a  state  of  dreamy  incertitude,  then  turned 
and  slowly  retraced  my  steps.  Reopening  the  door  of 
my  chambers  with  my  key,  I  returned  to  my  study 
and  sat  down  at  the  table  to  endeavour  to  arrange  the 
facts  of  what  I  recognized  to  be  a  really  amazing 


136  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

episode.  The  adventure,  trifling  though  it  seemed, 
undoubtedly  held  some  hidden  significance  that  at 
present  was  not  apparent  to  me.  In  accordance  with 
the  excellent  custom  of  my  friend,  Paul  Harley,  I 
prepared  to  make  notes  of  the  occurrence  while  the 
facts  were  still  fresh  in  my  memory.  At  the  moment 
that  I  was  about  to  begin,  I  made  an  astounding  dis- 
covery. } 

Although  I  had  been  absent  only  a  few  minutes, 
and  had  locked  my  door  behind  me,  the  pigtail  was 
gone! 

I  sat  quite  still,  listening  intently.  The  woman's 
story  of  the  yellow  man  on  the  stairs  suddenly  assumed 
a  totally  different  aspect — a  new  and  sinister  aspect. 
Could  it  be  that  the  pigtail  was  at  the  bottom  of  the 
mystery? — could  it  be  that  some  murderous  Chinaman 
who  had  been  lurking  in  hiding,  waiting  his  oppor- 
tunity, had  in  some  way  gained  access  to  my  chambers 
during  that  brief  absence?  If  so,  was  he  gone? 

From  the  table  drawer  I  took  out  a  revolver, 
ascertained  that  it  was  fully  loaded,  and  turning  up 
light  after  light  as  I  proceeded,  conducted  a  room-to- 
room  search.  It  was  without  result;  there  was  abso- 
lutely nothing  to  indicate  that  anyone  had  surrepti- 
tiously entered  or  departed  from  my  chambers. 

I  returned  to  the  study  and  sat  gazing  at  the 
revolver  lying  on  the  blotting-pad  before  me.  Per- 
haps my  mind  worked  slowly,  but  I  think  that  fully 
fifteen  minutes  must  have  passed  before  it  dawned  on 
me  that  the  explanation  not  only  of  the  missing  pigtail 
but  of  the  other  incidents  of  the  night,  was  simple 


THE  PIGTAIL  OF  HI  WING  HO        137 

enough.  The  yellow  man  had  been  a  fabrication,  and 
my  dark-eyed  visitor  had  not  been  in  quest  of  "Raphael 
Philips,"  but  in  quest  of  the  pigtail:  and  her  quest  had 
been  successful! 

"What  a  hopeless  fool  I  am!"  I  cried,  and  banged 
my  fist  down  upon  the  table,  "there  was  no  yellow 
man  at  all — there  was " 

My  door  bell  rang.  I  sprang  nervously  to  my  feet, 
glanced  at  the  revolver  on  the  table — and  finally  drop- 
ped it  into  my  coat  pocket  ere  going  out  and  opening 
the  door. 

On  the  landing  stood  a  police  constable  and  an 
officer  in  plain  clothes. 

"Your  name  is  Malcolm  Knox?"  asked  the  con- 
stable, glancing  at  a  note-book  which  he  held  in  his 
hand. 

"It  is,"  I  replied. 

"You  are  required  to  come  at  once  to  Bow  Street 
to  identify  a  woman  who  was  found  murdered  in  a 
taxi-cab  in  the  Strand  about  eleven  o'clock  to-night." 

I  suppressed  an  exclamation  of  horror;  I  felt  myself 
turning  pale. 

"But  what  has  it  to  do " 

uThe  driver  stated  she  came  from  your  chambers, 
for  you  saw  her  off,  and  her  last  words  to  you 
were  'Good  night,  Mr.  Knox,  I  am  sincerely  sorry 
to  have  given  you  all  this  trouble.'  Is  that  correct, 
sir?" 

The  constable,  who  had  read  out  the  information 
in  an  official  voice,  now  looked  at  me,  as  I  stood  there 
stupefied. 


138  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"It  is,"  I  said  blankly.     'Til  come  at  once." 
It  would  seem  that  I  had  misjudged  my  unfortu- 
nate visitor :  her  story  of  the  yellow  man  on  the  stair 
had  apparently  been  not  a  fabrication,  but  a  gruesome 
fact! 


Ill 

HOW  I  REGAINED  IT 

MY  GHASTLY  duty  was  performed;  I  had 
identified  the  dreadful  thing,  which  less  than 
an  hour  before  had  been  a  strikingly  beauti- 
ful woman,  as  my  mysterious  visitor.  The  police  were 
palpably  disappointed  at  the  sparsity  of  my  knowl- 
edge respecting  her.  In  fact,  had  it  not  chanced  that 
Detective  Sergeant  Durham  was  in  the  station,  I 
think  they  would  have  doubted  the  accuracy  of  my 
story. 

As  a  man  of  some  experience  in  such  matters,  I 
fully  recognized  its  improbability,  but  beyond  relating 
the  circumstances  leading  up  to  my  possession  of  the 
pigtail  and  the  events  which  had  ensued,  I  could  do 
no  more  in  the  matter.  The  weird  relic  had  not  been 
found  on  the  dead  woman,  nor  in  the  cab. 

Now  the  unsavoury  business  was  finished,  and  I 
walked  along  Bow  Street,  racking  my  mind  for  the 
master-key  to  this  mystery  in  which  I  was  become  en- 
meshed. How  I  longed  to  rush  off  to  Harley's  rooms 
in  Chancery  Lane  and  to  tell  him  the  whole  story! 
But  my  friend  was  a  thousand  miles  away — and  I 
had  to  see  the  thing  out  alone. 

That  the  pigtail  was  some  sacred  relic  stolen  from 

139 


140  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

a  Chinese  temple  and  sought  for  by  its  fanatical  custo- 
dians was  a  theory  which  persistently  intruded  itself. 
But  I  could  find  no  place  in  that  hypothesis  for  the 
beautiful  Jewess;  and  that  she  was  intimately  con- 
cerned I  did  not  doubt.  A  cool  survey  of  the  facts 
rendered  it  fairly  evident  that  it  was  she  and  none 
other  who  had  stolen  the  pigtail  from  my  rooms. 
Some  third  party — possibly  the  "yellow  man"  of 
whom  she  had  spoken— had  in  turn  stolen  it  from  her, 
strangling  her  in  the  process. 

The  police  theory  of  the  murder  (and  I  was  pre- 
pared to  accept  it)  was  that  the  assassin  had  been 
crouching  in  hiding  behind  or  beside  the  cab — or  even 
within  the  dark  interior.  He  had  leaped  in  and  at- 
tacked the  woman  at  the  moment  that  the  taxi-man 
had  started  his  engine;  if  already  inside,  the  deed  had 
proven  even  easier.  Then,  during  some  block  in  the 

traffic,  he  had  slipped  out  unseen,  leaving  the  body  of 
the  victim  to  be  discovered  when  the  cab  pulled  up  at 
the  hotel. 

I  knew  of  only  one  place  in  London  where  I  might 
hope  to  obtain  useful  information,  and  for  that  place 
I  was  making  now.  It  was  Malay  Jack's,  whence  I 
had  been  bound  on  the  previous  night  when  my  strange 
meeting  with  the  seaman  who  then  possessed  the  pig- 
tail had  led  to  a  change  of  plan.  The  scum  of  the 
Asiatic  population  always  come  at  one  time  or  another 
to  Jack's,  and  I  hoped  by  dint  of  a  little  patience  to 
achieve  what  the  police  had  now  apparently  despaired 
of  achieving — the  discovery  of  the  assassin. 

Having  called  at  my  chambers  to  obtain  my  revolver, 


THE  PIGTAIL  OF  HI  WING  HO        141 

I  mounted  an  eastward-bound  motor-bus.  The  night, 
as  I  have  already  stated,  was  exceptionally  dark. 
There  was  no  moon,  and  heavy  clouds  were  spread 
over  the  sky;  so  that  the  deserted  East  End  streets 
presented  a  sufficiently  uninviting  aspect,  but  one  with 
which  I  was  by  no  means  unfamiliar  and  which  cer- 
tainly in  no  way  daunted  me. 

Changing  at  Paul  Harley's  Chinatown  base  in  Wade 
Stret:,  I  turned  my  steps  in  the  same  direction  as 
upon  the  preceding  night;  but  if  my  own  will  played 
no  part  in  the  matter,  then  decidedly  Providence  truly 
guided  me.  Poetic  justice  is  rare  enough  in  real  life, 
yet  I  was  destined  to-night  to  witness  swift  retribution 
overtaking  a  malefactor. 

The  by-ways  which  I  had  trodden  were  utterly  de- 
serted; Iwas  far  from  the  lighted  high  road,  and  the 
only  signs  of  human  activity  that  reached  me  came 
from  the  adjacent  river;  therefore,  when  presently  an 
outcry  arose  from  somewhere  on  my  left,  for  a  moment 
I  really  believed  that  my  imagination  was  vividly  re- 
producing the  episode  of  the  night  before ! 

A  furious  scuffle — between  a  European  and  an 
Asiatic — was  in  progress  not  twenty  yards1  away ! 

Realizing  that  such  was  indeed  the  case,  and  that 
I  was  not  the  victim  of  hallucination,  I  advanced 
slowly  in  the  direction  of  the  sounds,  but  my  footsteps 
reechoed  hollowly  from  wall  to  wall  of  the  narrow 
passage-way,  and  my  coming  brought  the  conflict  to 
a  sudden  and  dramatic  termination. 

"Thought  I  wouldn't  know  yer  ugly  face,  did  yer?" 
yelled  a  familiar  voice.  "No  good  squealin' — I  got 


142  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

yer !  I'd  bust  you  up  if  I  could!"  (a  sound  of  furious 
blows  and  inarticulate  chattering)  "but  it  ain't  'umanly 
possible  to  kill  a  Chink " 

I  hurried  forward  toward  the  spot  where  two  dim 
figures  were  locked  in  deadly  conflict. 

uTake  that  to  remember  me  by!"  gasped  the  husky 
voice  as  I  ran  up. 

One  of  the  figures  collapsed  in  a  heap  upon  the 
ground.  The  other  made  off  at  a  lumbering  gait 
along  a  second  and  even  narrower  passage  branching 
at  right  angles  from  that  in  which  the  scuffle  had 
taken  place. 

The  clatter  of  the  heavy  sea-boots  died  away  in  the 
distance.  I  stood  beside  the  fallen  man,  looking 
keenly  about  to  right  and  left;  for  an  impression  was 
strong  upon  me  that  another  than  I  had  been  witness 
of  the  scene — that  a  shadowy  form  had  slunk  back 
furtively  at  my  approach.  But  the  night  gave  up  no 
sound  in  confirmation  of  this,  and  I  could  detect  no 
sign  of  any  lurker. 

I  stooped  over  the  Chinaman  (for  a  Chinaman  it 
was)  who  lay  at  my  feet,  and  directed  the  ray  of  my 
pocket-lamp  upon  his  yellow  and  contorted  counten- 
ance. I  suppressed  a  cry  of  surprise  and  horror. 

Despite  the  human  impossibility  referred  to  by  the 
missing  fireman,  this  particular  Chinaman  had  joined 
the  shades  of  his  ancestors.  I  think  that  final  blow, 
which  had  felled  him,  had  brought  his  shaven  skull  in 
such  violent  contact  with  the  wall  that  he  had  died  of 
the  thundering  concussion  set  up. 

Kneeling  there  and  looking  into  his  upturned  eyes, 


THE  PIGTAIL  OF  HI  WING  HO        143 

I  became  aware  that  my  position  was  not  an  enviable 
one,  particularly  since  I  felt  little  disposed  to  set  the 
law  on  the  track  of  the  real  culprit.  For  this  man 
who  now  lay  dead  at  my  feet  was  doubtless  one  of  the 
pair  who  had  attempted  the  life  of  the  fireman  of  the 
Jupiter. 

That  my  seafaring  acquaintance  had  designed  to 
kill  the  Chinaman  I  did  not  believe,  despite  his  stormy 
words:  the  death  had  been  an  accident,  and  (perhaps 
my  morality  was  over-broad)  I  considered  the  assault 
to  have  been  justified. 

Now  my  ideas  led  me  further  yet.  The  dead  China- 
man wore  a  rough  blue  coat,  and  gingerly,  for  I  found 
the  contact  repulsive,  I  inserted  my  hand  into  the  inside 
pocket.  Immediately  my  fingers  closed  upon  a  familiar 
object — and  I  stood  up,  whistling  slightly,  and  dangl- 
ing in  my  left  hand  the  missing  pigtail ! 

Beyond  doubt  Justice  had  guided  the  seaman's 
blows.  This  was  the  man  who  had  murdered  my 
dark-eyed  visitor! 

I  stood  perfectly  still,  directing  the  little  white  ray 
of  my  flashlight  upon  the  pigtail  in  my  hand.  I  real- 
ized that  my  position,  difficult  before,  now  was  become 
impossible;  the  possession  of  the  pigtail  compromised 
me  hopelessly.  What  should  I  do? 

"My  God!"  I  said  aloud,  "what  does  it  all  mean?" 

"It  means,"  said  a  gruff  voice,  "that  it  was  lucky 
I  was  following  you  and  saw  wrhat  happened!" 

I  whirled  about,  my  heart  leaping  wildly.  De- 
tective-Sergeant Durham  was  standing  watching  me, 
a  grim  smile  upon  his  face ! 


144  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

I  laughed  rather  shakily. 

"Lucky  indeed!"  I  said.  "Thank  God  you're  here. 
This  pigtail  is  a  nightmare  which  threatens  to  drive 
me  mad!" 

The  detective  advanced  and  knelt  beside  the 
crumpled-up  figure  on  the  ground.  He  examined  it 
briefly,  and  then  stood  up. 

"The  fact  that  he  had  the  missing  pigtail  in  his 
pocket,"  he  said,  "is  proof  enough  to  my  mind  that  he 
did  the  murder." 

"And  to  mine." 

"There's  another  point,"  he  added,  "which  throws 
a  lot  of  light  on  the  matter.  You  and  Mr.  Harley 
were  out  of  town  at  the  time  of  the  Huang  Chow  case ; 
but  the  Chief  and  I  outlined  it,  you  remember,  one 
night  in  Mr.  Harley's  rooms?" 

"I  remember  it  perfectly;  the  giant  spider  in  the 
coffin " 

"Yes;  and  a  certain  Ah  Fu,  confidential  servant  of 
the  old  man,  who  used  to  buy  the  birds  the  thing  fed 
on.  Well,  Mr.  Knox,  Huang  Chow  was  the  biggest 
dealer  in  illicit  stuff  in  all  the  East  End — and  this  bat- 
tered thing  at  our  feet  is — Ah  Fu !" 

"Huang  Chow's  servant?" 

"Exactly!" 

I  stared,  uncomprehendingly,  and: 

"In  what  way  does  this  throw  light  on  the  matter?" 
I  asked. 

Durham — a  very  intelligent  young  officer — smiled 
significantly. 

"I  begin  to  see  light!"  he  declared.      "The  gentle- 


THE  PIGTAIL  OF  HI  WING  HO        145 

man  who  made  off  just  as  I  arrived  on  the  scene 
probably  had  a  private  quarrel  with  the  Chinaman  and 
was  otherwise  not  concerned  in  any  way." 

"I  am  disposed  to  agree  with  you,"  I  said  guardedly. 

"Of  course,  you've  no  idea  of  his  identity?" 

"I'm  afraid  not." 

"We  may  find  him,"  mused  the  officer,  glancing  at 
me  shrewdly,  "by  applying  at  the  offices  of  the  Planet 
Line,  but  I  rather  doubt  it.  Also  I  rather  doubt  if 
we'll  look  very  far.  He's  saved  us  a  lot  of  trouble, 
but" — peering  about  in  the  shadowy  corners  which 
abounded — "didn't  I  see  somebody  else  lurking  around 
here?" 

"I'm  almost  certain  there  was  someone  else!"  I 
cried.  "In  fact,  I  could  all  but  swear  to  it." 

"H'm!"  said  the  detective.  "He's  not  here  now. 
Might  I  trouble  you  to  walk  along  to  Limehouse 
Police  Station  for  the  ambulance?  I'd  better  stay 
here." 

I  agreed  at  once,  and  started  off. 

Thus  a  second  time  my  plans  were  interrupted,  for 
my  expedition  that  night  ultimately  led  me  to  Bow 
Street,  whence,  after  certain  formalities  had  been  ob- 
served, I  departed  for  my  chambers,  the  mysterious 
pigtail  in  my  pocket.  Failing  the  presence  of  Dur- 
ham, the  pigtail  must  have  been  retained  as  evidence, 
but: 

"We  shall  know  where  to  find  it  if  it's  wanted, 
Mr.  Knox,"  said  the  Yard  man,  "and  I  can  trust  you 
to  look  after  your  own  property." 

The  clock  of  St.  Paul's  was  chiming  the  hour  of 


146  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

two  when  I  locked  the  door  of  my  chambers  and  pre- 
pared to  turn  in.  The  clangour  of  the  final  strokes 
yet  vibrated  through  the  night's  silence  when  some- 
one set  my  own  door  bell  loudly  ringing. 

With  an  exclamation  of  annoyance  I  shot  back  the 
bolts  and  threw  open  the  door. 

A  Chinaman  stood  outside  upon  the  mat! 


IV 

HOW  IT  ALL  ENDED 

ME  WISHEE  see  you,"  said  the  apparition, 
smiling  blandly;  "me  comee  in?" 
"Come  in,  by  all  means,"  I  said  without 
enthusiasm,  and,  switching  on  the  light  in  my  study,  I 
admitted  the  Chinaman  and  stood  facing  him  with  an 
expression  upon  my  face  which  I  doubt  not  was  the 
reverse  of  agreeable. 

My  visitor,  who  wore  a  slop-shop  suit,  also  wore 
a  wide-brimmed  bowler  hat;  now,  the  set  bland  smile 
still  upon  his  yellow  face,  he  removed  the  bowler  and 
pointed  significantly  to  his  skull. 

His  pigtail  had  been  severed  some  three  inches  from 
the  root! 

"You  gotchee  my  pigtail,"  he  explained;  "me  callee 
get  it — thank  you." 

"Thank  you,"  I  said  grimly.  "But  I  must  ask  you 
to  establish  your  claim  rather  more  firmly." 

"Yessir,"  agreed  the  Chinaman. 

And  thereupon  in  tolerable  pidgin  English  he  un- 
folded his  tale.  He  proclaimed  his  name  to  be  Hi 
Wing  Ho,  and  his  profession  that  of  a  sailor,  or  so  I 
understood  him.  While  ashore  at  Suez  he  had  be- 
come embroiled  with  some  drunken  seamen :  knives 

147 


148  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

had  been  drawn,  and  in  the  scuffle  by  some  strange 
accident  his  pigtail  had  been  severed.  He  had  escaped 
from  the  conflict,  badly  frightened,  and  had  run  a 
great  distance  before  he  realized  his  loss.  Since 
Southern  Chinamen  of  his  particular  Tong  hold  their 
pigtails  in  the  highest  regard,  he  had  instituted  in- 
quiries as  soon  as  possible,  and  had  presently  learned 
from  a  Chinese  member  of  the  crew  of  the  S.  S.  Jupiter 
that  the  precious  queue  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  a 
fireman  on  that  vessel.  He  (Hi  Wing  Ho)  had 
shipped  on  the  first  available  steamer  bound  for  Eng- 
land, having  in  the  meanwhile  communicated  with  his 
friend  on  the  Jupiter  respecting  the  recovery  of  the 
pigtail. 

"What  was  the  name  of  your  friend  on  the  Jupiter?" 

uHim  Li  Ping — yessir!" — without  the  least  hesi- 
tation or  hurry. 

I  nodded.     "Go  on,"  I  said. 

He  arrived  at  the  London  docks  very  shortly  after 
the  Jupiter.  Indeed,  the  crew  of  the  latter  vessel  had 
not  yet  been  paid  off  when  Hi  Wing  Ho  presented 
himself  at  the  dock  gates.  He  admitted  that,  finding 
the  fireman  so  obdurate,  he  and  his  friend  Li  Ping 
had  resorted  to  violence,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  rec- 
ognize me  as  the  person  who  had  frustrated  their 
designs.  Thus  far  I  found  his  story  credible  enough, 
excepting  the  accidental  severing  of  the  pigtail  at  Suez, 
but  now  it  became  wildly  improbable,  for  he  would 
have  me  believe  that  Li  Ping,  or  Ah  Fu,  obtaining 
possession  of  the  pigtail  (in  what  manner  Hi  Wing 
Ho  protested  that  he  knew  not)  he  sought  to  hold  it 


THE  PIGTAIL  OF  HI  WING  HO        149 

to  ransom,  knowing  how  highly  Hi  Wing  Ho  valued 
it. 

I  glared  sternly  at  the  Chinaman,  but  his  impassive 
countenance  served  him  well.  That  he  was  lying  to 
me  I  no  longer  doubted;  for  Ah  Fu  could  not  have 
hoped  to  secure  such  a  price  as  would  justify  his  com- 
mitting murder;  furthermore,  the  presence  of  the  un- 
fortunate Jewess  in  the  case  was  not  accounted  for  by 
the  ingenious  narrative  of  Hi  Wing  Ho.  I  was 
standing  staring  at  him  and  wondering  what  course 
to  adopt,  when  yet  again  my  restless  door-bell  clam- 
oured in  the  silence. 

Hi  Wing  Ho  started  nervously,  exhibiting  the  first 
symptoms  of  alarm  which  I  had  perceived  in  him. 
My  mind  was  made  up  in  an  instant.  I  took  my 
revolver  from  the  drawer  and  covered  him. 

"Be  good  enough  to  open  the  door,  Hi  Wing  Ho," 
I  said  coldly. 

He  shrank  from  me,  pouring  forth  voluble  protes- 
tations. 

«/-*          u     j        ?» 
'Open  the  door! 

I  clenched  my  left  fist  and  advanced  upon  him.  He 
scuttled  away  with  his  odd  Chinese  gait  and  threw 
open  the  door.  Standing  before  me  I  saw  my  friend 
Detective  Sergeant  Durham,  and  with  him  a  remark- 
ably tall  and  very  large-boned  man  whose  square- 
jawed  face  was  deeply  tanned  and  whose  aspect  was 
dourly  Scottish. 

When  the  piercing  eyes  of  this  stranger  rested 
upon  Hi  Wing  Ho  an  expression  which  I  shall 
never  forget  entered  into  them;  an  expression  coldly 


150  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

murderous.  As  for  the  Chinaman,  he  liters rlly  crum- 
pled up. 

"You  rat!"  roared  the  stranger. 

Taking  one  long  stride  he  stooped  upon  the  China- 
man, seized  him  by  the  back  of  the  neck  as  a  terrier 
might  seize  a  rat,  and  lifted  him  to  his  feet. 

"The  mystery  of  the  pigtail,  Mr.  Knox,"  said  the 
detective,  "is  solved  at  last." 

"Have  ye  got  it?"  demanded  the  Scotsman,  turning 
to  me,  but  without  releasing  his  hold  upon  the  neck 
of  Hi  Wing  Ho. 

I  took  the  pigtail  from  my  pocket  and  dangled  it 
before  his  eyes. 

"Suppose  you  come  into  my  study,"  I  said,  "and 
explain  matters." 

We  entered  the  room  which  had  been  the  scene  of 
so  many  singular  happenings.  The  detective  and  I 
seated  ourselves,  but  the  Scotsman,  holding  the  China- 
man by  the  neck  as  though  he  had  been  some  inanimate 
bundle,  stood  just  within  the  doorway,  one  of  the 
most  gigantic  specimens  of  manhood  I  had  ever  set 
eyes  upon. 

"You  do  the  talking,  sir,"  he  directed  the  detective; 
"ye  have  all  the  facts." 

While  Durham  talked,  then,  we  all  listened — ex- 
cepting the  Chinaman,  who  was  past  taking  an  intelli- 
gent interest  in  anything,  and  who,  to  judge  from  his 
starting  eyes,  was  being  slowly  strangled. 

"The  gentleman,"  said  Durham— "Mr.  Nichol- 
son— arrived  two  days  ago  from  the  East.  He 
is  a  buyer  for  a  big  firm  of  diamond  merchants,  and 


THE  PIGTAIL  OF  HI  WING  HO        151 

some  weeks  ago  a  valuable  diamond  was  stolen  from 
him " 

"By  this!"  interrupted  the  Scotsman,  shaking  the 
wretched  Hi  Wing  Ho  terrier  fashion. 

"By  Hi  Wing  Ho,"  explained  the  detective,  "whom 
you  see  before  you.  The  theft  was  a  very  ingenious 
one,  and  the  man  succeeded  in  getting  away  with  his 
haul.  He  tried  to  dispose  of  the  diamond  to  a  certain 
Isaac  Cohenberg,  a  Singapore  moneylender;  but  Isaac 
Cohenberg  was  the  bigger  crook  of  the  two.  Hi 
Wing  Ho  only  escaped  from  the  establishment  of 
Cohenberg  by  dint  of  sandbagging  the  moneylender, 
and  quitted  the  town  by  a  boat  which  left  the  same 
night.  On  the  voyage  he  was  indiscreet  enough  to 
take  the  diamond  from  its  hiding-place  and  surrepti- 
tiously to  examine  it.  Another  member  of  the 
Chinese  crew,  one  Li  Ping — otherwise  Ah  Fu,  the  ac- 
credited agent  of  old  Huang  Chow ! — was  secretly 
watching  our  friend,  and,  knowing  that  he  possessed 
this  valuable  jewel,  he  also  learned  where  he  kept  it 
hidden.  At  Suez  Ah  Fu  attacked  Hi  Wing  Ho  and 
secured  possession  of  the  diamond.  It  was  to  secure 
possession  of  the  diamond  that  Ah  Fu  had  gone  out 
East.  I  don't  doubt  it.  He  employed  Hi  Wing  Ho 
— and  Hi  Wing  Ho  tried  to  double  on  him! 

"We  are  indebted  to  you,  Mr.  Knox,  for  some  of 
the  data  upon  which  we  have  reconstructed  the  fore- 
going and  also  for  the  next  link  in  the  narrative.  A 
fireman  ashore  from  the  Jupiter  intruded  upon  the 
scene  at  Suez  and  deprived  Ah  Fu  of  the  fruits  of  his 
labours.  Hi  Wing  Ho  seems  to  have  been  badly 


152  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

damaged  in  the  scuffle,  but  Ah  Fu,  the  more  wily  of 
the  two,  evidently  followed  the  fireman,  and,  desert- 
ing from  his  own  ship,  signed  on  with  the  Jupiter" 

While  this  story  was  enlightening  in  some  respects, 
it  was  mystifying  in  others.  I  did  not  interrupt,  how- 
ever, for  Durham  immediately  resumed: 

"The  drama  was  complicated  by  the  presence  of  a 
fourth  character — the  daughter  of  Cohenberg.  Real- 
izing that  a  small  fortune  had  slipped  through  his 
fingers,  the  old  moneylender  dispatched  his  daughter 
in  pursuit  of  Hi  Wing  Ho,  having  learned  upon  which 
vessel  the  latter  had  sailed.  He  had  no  difficulty  in 
obtaining  this  information,  for  he  is  in  touch  with  all 
the  crooks  of  the  town.  Had  he  known  that  the  dia- 
mond had  been  stolen  by  an  agent  of  Huang  Chow, 
he  would  no  doubt  have  hesitated.  Huang  Chow  has 
an  international  reputation. 

"However,  his  daughter — a  girl  of  great  personal 
beauty — relied  upon  her  diplomatic  gifts  to  regain 
possession  of  the  stone,  but,  poor  creature!  she  had 
not  counted  with  Ah  Fu,  who  was  evidently  watching 
your  chambers  (while  Hi  Wing  Ho,  it  seems,  was 
assiduously  shadowing  Ah  Fu ! ) .  How  she  traced  the 
diamond  from  point  to  point  of  its  travels  we  do  not 
know,  and  probably  never  shall  know,  but  she  was 
undeniably  clever  and  unscrupulous.  Poor  girl !  She 
came  to  a  dreadful  end.  Mr.  Nicholson,  here,  identi- 
fied her  at  Bow  Street  to-night." 

Now  the  whole  amazing  truth  burst  upon  me. 

"I  understand!"  I  cried.  "This"— and  I  snatched 
up  the  pigtail 


THE  PIGTAIL  OF  HI  WING  HO        153 

"That  my  pigtail,"  moaned  Hi  Wing  Ho  feebly. 

Mr.  Nicholson  pitched  him  unceremoniously  into 
a  corner  of  the  room,  and  taking  the  pigtail  in  his 
huge  hand,  clumsily  unfastened  it.  Out  from  the 
thick  part,  some  two  inches  below  the  point  at  which 
it  had  been  cut  from  the  Chinaman's  head,  a  great 
diamond  dropped  upon  the  floor ! 

For  perhaps  twenty  seconds  there  was  perfect 
silence  in  my  study.  No  one  stooped  to  pick  the  dia- 
mond from  the  floor — the  diamond  which  now  had 
blood  upon  it.  No  one,  so  far  as  my  sense  informed 
me,  stirred.  But  when,  following  those  moments  of 
stupefaction,  we  all  looked  up — Hi  Wing  Ho,  like  a 
phantom,  had  faded  from  the  room! 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GOLDEN  JOSS 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GOLDEN  JOSS 

I 

THE  BLOOD-STAINED  IDOL 

STOP  when  we  pass  the  next  lamp  and  give  me  a 
light  for  my  pipe." 
"Why?" 

"No!  don't  look  round/'  warned  my  companion. 
"I  think  someone  is  following  us.  And  it  is  always 
advisable  to  be  on  guard  in  this  neighbourhood." 

We  had  nearly  reached  the  house  in  Wade  Street, 
Limehouse,  which  my  friend  used  as  a  base  for  East 
End  operations.  The  night  was  dark  but  clear,  and 
I  thought  that  presently  when  dawn  came  it  would 
bring  a  cold,  bright  morning.  There  was  no  moon, 
and  as  we  passed  the  lamp  and  paused  we  stood  in 
almost  total  darkness. 

Facing  in  the  direction  of  the  Council  School  I 
struck  a  match.  It  revealed  my  ruffianly  looking 
companion — in  whom  his  nearest  friends  must  have 
failed  to  recognize  Mr.  Paul  Harley  of  Chancery 
Lane. 

He  was  glancing  furtively  back  along  the  street, 
and  when  a  moment  later  we  moved  on,  I  too,  had 
detected  the  presence  of  a  figure  stumbling  toward  us. 

157 


158  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

''Don't  stop  at  the  door,"  whispered  Harley,  for 
our  follower  was  only  a  few  yards  away. 

Accordingly  we  passed  the  house  in  which  Harley 
had  rooms,  and  had  proceeded  some  fifteen  paces 
farther  when  the  man  who  was  following  us  stumbled 
in  between  Harley  and  myself,  clutching  an  arm  of 
either.  I  scarcely  knew  what  to  expect,  but  was  pre- 
pared for  anything,  when: 

"Mates!"  said  a  man  huskily.  "Mates,  if  you 
know  where  I  can  get  a  drink,  take  me  there !" 

Harley  laughed  shortly.  I  cannot  say  if  he  re- 
mained suspicious  of  the  newcomer,  but  for  my  own 
part  I  had  determained  after  one  glance  at  the  man 
that  he  was  merely  a  drunken  fireman  newly  recovered 
from  a  prolonged  debauch. 

"Where  'ave  yer  been,  old  son?"  growled  Harley, 
in  that  wonderful  dialect  of  his  which  I  had  so  often 
and  so  vainly  sought  to  cultivate.  "You  look  as  though 
you'd  'ad  one  too  many  already." 

"I  ain't,"  declared  the  fireman,  who  appeared  to  be 
in  a  semi-dazed  condition.  "I  ain't  'ad  one  since  ten 
o'clock  last  night.  It's  dope  wot's  got  me,  not  rum." 

"Dope!"  said  Harley  sharply;  "been  'avin'  a  pipe, 
eh?" 

"If  you've  got  a  corpse-reviver  anywhere,"  con- 
tinued the  man  in  that  curious,  husky  voice,  "  'ave  pity 
on  me,  mate.  I  seen  a  thing  to-night  wot  give  me 
the  jim-jams." 

"All  right,  old  son,"  said  my  friend  good-humour- 
edly;  "about  turn!  I've  got  a  drop  in  the  bottle,  but 
me  an'  my  mate  sails  to-morrow,  an'  it's  the  last." 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GOLDEN  JOSS        159 

"Gawd  bless  yer!"  growled  the  fireman;  and  the 
three  of  us — an  odd  trio,  truly — turned  about,  retrac- 
ing our  steps. 

As  we  approached  the  street  lamp  and  its  light 
shone  upon  the  haggard  face  of  the  man  walking  be- 
tween us,  Harley  stopped,  and: 

"Wot's  up  with  yer  eye?"  he  inquired. 

He  suddenly  tilted  the  man's  head  upward  and 
peered  closely  into  one  of  his  eyes.  I  suppressed  a 
gasp  of  surprise  for  I  instantly  recognized  the  fireman 
of  the  Jupiter! 

"Nothin'  up  with  it,  is  there?"  said  the  fireman. 

"Only  a  lump  o'  mud,"  growled  Harley,  and  with 
a  very  dirty  handkerchief  he  pretended  to  remove  the 
imaginary  stain,  and  then,  turning  to  me: 

"Open  the  door,  Jim,"  he  directed. 

His  examination  of  the  man's  eyes  had  evidently 
satisfied  him  that  our  acquaintance  had  really  been 
smoking  opium. 

We  paused  immediately  outside  the  house  for  which 
we  had  been  bound,  and  as  I  had  the  key  I  opened 
the  door  and  the  three  of  us  stepped  into  a  little  dark 
room.  Harley  closed  the  door  and  we  stumbled  up- 
stairs to  a  low  first-floor  apartment  facing  the  street. 
There  was  nothing  in  its  appointments,  as  revealed  in 
the  light  of  an  oil  lamp  burning  on  the  solitary  table, 
to  distinguish  it  from  a  thousand  other  such  apart- 
ments which  may  be  leased  for  a  few  shillings  a  week 
in  the  neighbourhood.  That  adjoining  might  have 
told  a  different  story,  for  it  more  closely  resembled 
an  actor's  dressing-room  than  a  seaman's  lodging; 


160  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

but  the  door  of  this  sanctum  was  kept  scrupulously 
locked. 

"Sit  down,  old  son,"  said  my  friend  heartily,  push- 
ing forward  an  old  arm-chair.  "Fetch  out  the  grog, 
Jim;  there's  about  enough  for  three." 

I  walked  to  a  cupboard,  as  the  fireman  sank  limply 
down  in  the  chair,  and  took  out  a  bottle  and  three 
glasses.  When  the  man,  who,  as  I  could  now  see 
quite  plainly,  was  suffering  from  the  after  effects  of 
opium,  had  eagerly  gulped  the  stiff  drink  which  I 
handed  to  him,  he  looked  around  with  dim,  glazed 
eyes,  and: 

"You've  saved  my  life,  mates,"  he  declared.  "I've 
'ad  a  'orrible  nightmare,  I  'ave — a  nightmare.  See?" 

He  fixed  his  eyes  on  me  for  a  moment,  then  raised 
himself  from  his  seat,  peering  narrowly  at  me  across 
the  table. 

"I  seed  you  before,  mate.  Gaw,  blimey!  if  you 
ain't  the  bloke  wot  I  giv'd  the  pigtail  to !  And  wot 
laid  out  that  blasted  Chink  as  was  scraggin'  me ! 
Shake,  mate!" 

I  shook  hands  with  him,  Harley  eyeing  me  closely 
the  while,  in  a  manner  which  told  me  that  his  quick 
brain  had  already  supplied  the  link  connecting  our 
doped  acquaintance  with  my  strange  experience  dur- 
ing his  absence.  At  the  same  time  it  occurred  to  me 
that  my  fireman  friend  did  not  know  that  Ah  Fu  was 
dead,  or  he  would  never  have  broached  the  subject  so 
openly. 

"That's  so,"  I  said,  and  wondered  if  he  required 
further  information. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GOLDEN  JOSS        161 

"It's  all  right,  mate.  I  don't  want  to  'ear  no  more 
about  blinking  pigtails — not  all  my  life  I  don't," 
and  he  sat  back  heavily  in  his  chair  and  stared  at 
Harley. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  inquired  Harley,  as  if 
no  interruption  had  occurred,  and  then  began  to 
reload  his  pipe:  "at  Malay  Jack's  or  at  Number 
Fourteen?" 

"Neither  of  'em!"  cried  the  fireman,  some  evidence 
of  animation  appearing  in  his  face;  "I  been  at  Kwen 
Lung's." 

"InPennyfields?" 

"That's  'im,  the  old  bloke  with  the  big  joss.  I 
allers  goes  to  see  Ma  Lorenzo  when  I'm  in  Port  o' 
London.  I've  seen  'er  for  the  last  time,  mates." 

He  banged  a  big  and  dirty  hand  upon  the  table. 

"Last  night  I  see  murder  done,  an'  only  that  I 
know  they  wouldn't  believe  me,  I'd  walk  across  to 
Limehouse  P'lice  Station  presently  and  put  the  splits 
on  'em,  I  would." 

Harley,  who  was  seated  behind  the  speaker,  glanced 
at  me  significantly. 

"Sure  you  wasn't  dreamin'?"  he  inquired  face- 
tiously. 

"DreaminM"  cried  the  man.  "Dreams  don't  leave 
no  blood  be'ind,  do  they?" 

"Blood!"  I  exclaimed. 

"That's  wot  I  said — blood!  When  I  woke  up  this 
mornin'  there  was  blood  all  on  that  grinnin'  joss — 
the  blood  wot  'ad  dripped  from  'er  shoulders  when 
she  fell." 


1 62  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"Eh!"  said  Harley.  "Blood  on  whose  shoulders? 
Wot  the  'ell  are  you  talkin'  about,  old  son?" 

"Ere" — the  fireman  turned  in  his  chair  and  grasped 
Harley  by  the  arm — "listen  to  me,  and  I'll  tell  you 
somethink,  I  will.  I'm  goin'  in  the  Seahawk  in  the 
mornin'  see?  But  if  you  want  to  know  somethink, 
I'll  tell  yer.  Drunk  or  sober  I  bars  the  blasted  p'lice, 
but  if  you  like  to  tell  'em  I'll  put  you  on  somethink 
worth  tellin'.  Sure  the  bottle's  empty,  mates?" 

I  caught  Harley's  glance  and  divided  the  remainder 
of  the  whisky  evenly  between  the  three  glasses. 

"Good  'ealth,"  said  the  fireman,  and  disposed  of 
his  share  at  a  draught.  "That's  bucked  me  up  won- 
derful." 

He  lay  back  in  his  chair  and  from  a  little  tobacco- 
box  began  to  fill  a  short  clay  pipe. 

"Look  'ere,  mates,  I'm  soberin'  up,  like,  after  the 
smoke,  an'  I  can  see,  I  can  see  plain,  as  nobody'll  ever 
believe  me.  Nobody  ever  does,  worse  luck,  but  'ere 
goes.  Pass  the  matches." 

He  lighted  his  pipe,  and  looking  about  him  in  a 
sort  of  vaguely  aggressive  way : 

"Last  night,"  he  resumed,  "after  I  was  chucked  out 
of  the  Dock  Gates,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  go  and 
smoke  a  pipe  with  old  Ma  Lorenzo.  Round  I  goes 
to  Pennyfields,  and  she  don't  seem  glad  to  see  me. 
There's  nobody  there  only  me.  Not  like  the  old  days 
when  you  'ad  to  book  your  seat  in  advance." 

He  laughed  gruffly. 

"She  didn't  want  to  let  me  in  at  first,  said  they  was 
watched,  that  if  a  Chink  'ad  an  old  pipe  wot  'ad 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GOLDEN  JOSS        163 

b'longed  to  'is  grandfather  it  was  good  enough  to  get 
'im  fined  fifty  quid.  Anyway,  me  bein'  an  old  friend 
she  spread  a  mat  for  me  and  filled  me  a  pipe.  I  asked 
after  old  Kwen  Lung,  but,  of  course,  Te  was  out 
gamblin',  as  usual;  so  after  old  Ma  Lorenzo  'ad  made 
me  comfortable  an'  gone  out  I  'ad  the  place  to  myself, 
and  presently  I  dozed  off  and  forgot  all  about  bloody 
ship's  bunkers  an'  nigger-drivin'  Scotchmen." 

He  paused  and  looked  about  him  defiantly. 

"I  dunno  'ow  long  I  slept,"  he  continued,  "but 
some  time  in  the  night  I  kind  of  'alf  woke  up." 

At  that  he  twisted  violently  in  his  chair  and  glared 
across  at  Harley: 

"You  been  a  pal  to  me,"  he  said;  "but  tell  me  I 
was  dreamin'  again  and  I'll  smash  yer  bloody  face!" 

He  glared  for  a  while,  then  addressing  his  narra- 
tive more  particularly  to  me,  he  resumed: 

"It  was  a  scream  wot  woke  me — a  woman's  scream. 
I  didn't  sit  up ;  I  couldn't.  I  never  felt  like  it  before. 
It  was  the  same  as  bein'  buried  alive,  I  should  think. 
I  could  see  an'  I  could  'ear,  but  I  couldn't  move  one 
muscle  in  my  body.  Foller  me?  An'  wot  did  I  see, 
mates,  an'  wot  did  I  'ear?  I'm  goin'  to  tell  yer.  I 
see  old  Kwen  Lung's  daughter " 

"I  didn't  know  'e  'ad  one,"  murmured  Harley. 

"Then  you  don't  know  much!"  shouted  the  fire- 
man. "I  knew  years  ago,  but  'e  kept  'er  stowed 
away  somewhere  up  above,  an'  last  night  was  the  first 
time  I  ever  see  'er.  It  was  'er  shriek  wot  'ad  reached 
me,  reached  me  through  the  smoke.  I  don't  take 
much  stock  in  Chink  gals  in  general,  but  this  one's 


1 64  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

mother  was  no  Chink,  I'll  swear.  She  was  just  as 
pretty  as  a  bloomin'  ivory  doll,  an'  as  little  an'  as 
white,  and  that  old  swine  Kwen  Lung  'ad  tore  the 
dress  off  of  'er  shoulders  with  a  bloody  great  whip !" 

Harley  was  leaning  forward  in  his  seat  now,  intent 
upon  the  man's  story,  and  although  I  could  not  get 
rid  of  the  idea  that  our  friend  was  relating  the  events 
of  a  particularly  unpleasant  opium  dream,  neverthe- 
less I  was  fascinated  by  the  strange  story  and  by  the 
strange  manner  of  its  telling. 

"I  saw  the  blood  drip  from  'er  bare  shoulders, 
mates,"  the  man  continued  huskily,  and  with  his  big 
dirty  hands  he  strove  to  illustrate  his  words.  "An' 
that  old  yellow  devil  lashed  an'  lashed  until  the  poor 
gal  was  past  screamin'.  She  just  sunk  down  on  the 
floor  all  of  a  'cap,  moanin'  and  moanin' — Gawd!  I 
can  'ear  'er  moanin'  now ! 

"Meanwhile,  'ere's  me  with  murder  in  me  'eart 
lyin'  there  watchin',  an'  I  can't  speak,  no!  I  can't 
even  curse  the  yellow  rat,  an'  I  can't  move — not  a 
'and,  not  a  foot!  Just  as  she  fell  there  right  up 
against  the  joss  an'  'er  blood  trickled  down  on  'is 
gilded  feet,  old  Ma  Lorenzo  comes  staggerin'  in.  I 
remember  all  this  as  clear  as  print,  mates,  remember 
it  plain,  but  wot  'appened  next  ain't  so  good  an'  clear. 
Somethink  seemed  to  bust  in  me  'ead.  Only  just  be- 
fore I  went  off,  the  winder — there's  only  one  in  the 
room — was  smashed  to  smithereens  an'  somebody 
come  in  through  it." 

"Are  you  sure?"  said  Harley  eagerly.  "Are  you 
sure?" 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GOLDEN  JOSS        165 

That  he  was  intensely  absorbed  in  the  story  he 
revealed  by  a  piece  of  bad  artistry,  very  rare  in  him. 
He  temporarily  forgot  his  dialect.  Our  marine 
friend,  however,  was  too  much  taken  up  with  his  own 
story  to  notice  the  slip,  and: 

"Dead  sure!"  he  shouted. 

He  suddenly  twisted  around  in  his  chair. 

"Tell  me  I  was  dreamin',  mate,"  he  invited,  "and 
if  you  ain't  dreamin'  in  'arf  a  tick  it  won't  be  because 
I  'aven't  put  yer  to  sleep !" 

"I  ain't  arguin',  old  son,"  said  Harley  soothingly. 
"Get  on  with  your  yarn." 

"Ho !"  said  the  fireman,  mollified,  "so  long  as  you 
ain't.  Well,  then,  it's  all  blotted  out  after  that. 
Somebody  come  in  at  the  winder,  but  'oo  it  was  or 
wot  it  was  I  can't  tell  yer,  not  for  fifty  quid.  When 
I  woke  up,  which  is  about  'arf  an  hour  before  you  see 
me,  I'm  all  alone — see?  There's  no  sign  of  Kwen 

Lung  nor  the  gal  nor  old  Ma  Lorenzo  nor  anybody. 
I  sez  to  meself,  wot  you  keep  on  sayin'.  I  sez, 
'You're  dreamin',  Bill.'  " 

"But  I  don't  think  you  was,"  declared  Harley. 
"Straight  I  don't." 

"I  know  I  wasn't!"  roared  the  fireman,  and  banged 
the  table  lustily.  "I  see  'er  blood  on  the  joss  an'  on 
the  floor  where  she  lay!" 

"This  morning?"  I  interjected. 

"This  mornin',  in  the  light  of  the  little  oil  lamp 
where  old  Ma  Lorenzo  'ad  roasted  the  pills!  It's  all 
still  an'  quiet  an'  I  feel  more  dead  than  alive.  I'm 
goin'  to  give  'er  a  hail,  see?  When  I  sez  to  myself, 


1 66  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

'Bill,'  I  sez,  'put  out  to  sea;  you're  amongst  Kaffirs, 
Bill.'  It  occurred  to  me  as  old  Kwen  Lung  might 
wonder  'ow  much  I  knew.  So  I  beat  it.  But  when 
I  got  in  the  open  air  I  felt  I'd  never  make  my  lodgin's 
without  a  tonic.  That's  'ow  I  come  to  meet  you, 
mates. 

"Listen — I'm  away  in  the  old  Seahawk  in  the 
mornin',  but  I'll  tell  you  somethink.  That  yellow 
bastard  killed  his  daughter  last  night!  Beat  'er  to 
death.  I  see  it  plain.  The  sweetest,  prettiest  bit  of 
ivory  as  Gawd  ever  put  breath  into.  If  'er  body  ain't 
in  the  river,  it's  in  the  'ouse.  Drunk  or  sober,  I  never 
could  stand  the  splits,  but  mates" — he  stood  up,  and 
grasping  me  by  the  arm,  he  drew  me  across  the  room 
where  he  also  seized  Harley  in  his  muscular  grip — 
"mates,"  he  went  on  earnestly,  "she  was  the  sweetest, 
prettiest  little  gal  as  a  man  ever  clapped  eyes  on. 
One  of  yer  walk  into  Limehouse  Station  an'  put  the 
koppers  wise.  I'd  sleep  easier  at  sea  if  I  knew  old 
Kwen  Lung  'ad  gone  west  on  a  bloody  rope's  end." 


II 

AT  KWEN  LUNG'S 

FOR  fully  ten  minutes  after  the  fireman  had  de- 
parted Paul  Harley  sat  staring  abstractedly  in 
front  of  him,  his  cold  pipe  between  his  teeth; 
and  knowing  his  moods  I  intruded  no  words  upon  this 
reverie,  until: 

"Come  on,  Knox,"  he  said,  standing  up  suddenly; 
"I  think  this  matter  calls  for  speedy  action." 

"What!      Do  you  think  the  man's  story  was  true?" 

"I  think  nothing.  I  am  going  to  look  at  Kwen 
Lung's  joss." 

Without  another  word  he  led  the  way  downstairs 
and  out  into  the  deserted  street.  The  first  gray  half- 
tones of  dawn  were  creeping  into  the  sky,  so  that  the 
outlines  of  Limehouse  loomed  like  dim  silhouettes 
about  us.  There  was  abundant  evidence  in  the  form 
of  noises,  strange  and  discordant,  that  many  workers 
were  busy  on  dock  and  riverside,  but  the  streets 
through  which  our  course  lay  were  almost  empty. 
Sometimes  a  furtive  shadow  would  move  out  of  some 
black  gully  and  fade  into  a  dimly  seen  doorway  in  a 
manner  peculiarly  unpleasant  and  Asiatic.  But  we 
met  no  palpable  pedestrian  throughout  the  journey. 

Before  the  door  of  a  house  in  Pennyfields  which 

167 


1 68  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

closely  resembled  that  which  we  had  left  in  Wade 
Street,  in  that  it  was  flatly  uninteresting,  dirty  and 
commonplace,  we  paused.  There  was  no  sign  of  life 
about  the  place  and  no  lights  showed  at  any  of  the 
windows,  which  appeared  as  dim  cavities — eyeless 
sockets  in  the  gray  face  of  the  building,  as  dawn  pro- 
claimed the  birth  of  a  new  day. 

Harley  seized  the  knocker  and  knocked  sharply. 
There  was  no  response,  and  he  repeated  the  summons, 
but  again  without  effect.  Thereupon,  with  a  muttered 
exclamation,  he  grasped  the  knocker  a  third  time  and 
executed  a  veritable  tattoo  upon  the  door.  When  this 
had  proceeded  for  about  half  a  minute  or  more : 

UA11  right,  all  right!"  came  a  shaky  voice  from 
within.  'Tm  coming." 

Harley  released  the  knocker,  and,  turning  to  me : 

"Ma  Lorenzo,"  he  whispered.  "Don't  make  any 
mistakes." 

Indeed,  even  as  he  warned  me,  heralded  by  a 
creaking  of  bolts  and  the  rattling  of  a  chain,  the  door 
was  opened  by  a  fat,  shapeless,  half-caste  woman  of 
indefinite  age;  in  whose  dark  eyes,  now  sunken  in 
bloated  cheeks,  in  whose  full  though  drooping  lips, 
and  even  in  the  whole  overlaid  contour  of  whose  face 
and  figure  it  was  possible  to  recognize  the  traces  of 
former  beauty.  This  was  Ma  Lorenzo,  who  for  many 
years  had  lived  at  that  address  with  old  Kwen  Lung, 
of  whom  strange  stories  were  told  in  Chinatown. 

As  Bill  Jones,  A.B.,  my  friend,  Paul  Harley,  was 
well  known  to  Ma  Lorenzo  as  he  was  well  known  to 
many  others  in  that  strange  colony  which  clusters 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GOLDEN  JOSS        169 

round  the  London  docks.  I  sometimes  enjoyed  the 
privilege  of  accompanying  my  friend  on  a  tour  of 
investigation  through  the  weird  resorts  which  abound 
in  that  neighbourhood,  and,  indeed,  we  had  been  re- 
turning from  one  of  these  Baghdad  nights  when  our 
present  adventure  had  been  thrust  upon  us.  Assum- 
ing a  wild  and  boisterous  manner  which  he  had  at 
command : 

"  'Urry  up,  Ma!"  said  Harley,  entering  without 
ceremony;  "I  want  to  introduce  my  pal  Jim  'ere  to 
old  Kwen  Lung,  and  make  it  all  right  for  him  before 
I  sail." 

Ma  Lorenzo,  who  was  half  Portuguese,  replied  in 
her  peculiar  accent: 

"This  no  time  to  come  waking  me  up  out  of  bed!" 

But  Harley,  brushing  past  her,  was  already  inside 
the  stuffy  little  room,  and  I  hastened  to  follow. 

uKwen  Lung!"  shouted  my  friend  loudly.  "Where 
are  you?  Brought  a  friend  to  see  you." 

"Kwen  Lung  no  hab,"  came  the  complaining  tones 
of  Ma  Lorenzo  from  behind  us. 

It  was  curious  to  note  how  long  association  with 
the  Chinese  had  resulted  in  her  catching  the  infection 
of  that  pidgin-English  which  is  a  sort  of  esperanto  in 
all  Asiatic  quarters. 

"Eh!"  cried  my  friend,  pushing  open  a  door  on 
the  right  of  the  passage  and  stumbling  down  three 
worn  steps  into  a  very  evil-smelling  room.  "Where 
is  he?" 

"Go  play  fan-tan.     Not  come  back." 

Ma  Lorenzo,  having  relocked  the  street  door,  had 


170  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

rejoined  us,  and  as  I  followed  my  friend  down  into  the 
dim  and  uninviting  apartment  she  stood  at  the  top  of 
the  steps,  hands  on  hips,  regarding  us. 

The  place,  which  was  quite  palpably  an  opium  den, 
must  have  disappointed  anyone  familiar  with  the  more 
ornate  houses  of  Chinese  vice  in  San  Francisco  and 
elsewhere.  The  bare  floor  was  not  particularly  clean, 
and  the  few  decorations  which  the  room  boasted  were 
garishly  European  for  the  most  part.  A  deep  divan, 
evidently  used  sometimes  as  a  bed,  occupied  one  side 
of  the  room,  and  just  to  the  left  of  the  steps  reposed 
the  only  typically  Oriental  object  in  the  place. 

It  was  a  strange  thing  to  see  in  so  sordid  a  setting; 
a  great  gilded  joss,  more  than  life-size,  squatting, 
hideous,  upon  a  massive  pedestal;  a  figure  fit  for  some 
native  temple  but  strangely  out  of  place  in  that  dirty 
little  Limehouse  abode. 

I  had  never  before  visited  Kwen  Lung's,  but  the 
fame  of  his  golden  joss  had  reached  me,  and  I  know 
that  he  had  received  many  offers  for  it,  all  of  which 
he  had  rejected.  It  was  whispered  that  Kwen  Lung 
was  rich,  that  he  was  a  great  man  among  the  Chinese, 
and  even  that  some  kind  of  religious  ceremony  peri- 
odically took  place  in  his  house.  Now,  as  I  stood 
staring  at  the  famous  idol,  I  saw  something  which 
made  me  stare  harder  than  ever. 

The  place  was  lighted  by  a  hanging  lamp  from 
which  depended  bits  of  coloured  paper  and  several 
gilded  silk  tassels;  but  dim  as  the  light  was  it  could 
not  conceal  those  tell-tale  stains. 

There  was  blood  on  the  feet  of  the  golden  idol ! 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GOLDEN  JOSS        171, 

All  this  I  detected  at  a  glance,  but  ere  I  had  time 
to  speak : 

"You  can't  tell  me  that  tale,  Ma!"  cried  Harley. 
"I  believe  'e  was  smokin'  in  'ere  when  we  knocked." 

The  woman  shrugged  her  fat  shoulders. 

"No,  hab,"  she  repeated.  "You  two  johnnies  clear 
out.  Let  me  sleep." 

But  as  I  turned  to  her,  beneath  the  nonchalant 
manner  I  could  detect  a  great  uneasiness;  and  in  her 
dark  eyes  there  was  fear.  That  Harley  also  had  seen 
the  bloodstains  I  was  well  aware,  and  I  did  not  doubt 
that  furthermore  he  had  noted  the  fact  that  the  only 
mat  which  the  room  boasted  had  been  placed  before 
the  joss — doubtless  to  hide  other  stains  upon  the 
boards. 

As  we  stood  so  I  presently  became  aware  of  a 
current  of  air  passing  across  the  room  in  the  direction 
of  the  open  door.  It  came  from  a  window  before 
which  a  tawdry  red  curtain  had  been  draped.  Either 
the  window  behind  the  curtain  was  wide  open,  which 
is  alien  to  Chinese  habits,  or  it  was  shattered.  While 
I  was  wondering  if  Harley  intended  to  investigate 
further : 

"Come  on,  Jim!"  he  cried  boisterously,  and  clapped 
me  on  the  shoulder;  "the  old  fox  don't  want  to  be 
disturbed." 

He  turned  to  the  woman : 

"Tell  him  when  he  wakes  up,  Ma,"  he  said,  "that 
if  ever  my  pal  Jim  wants  a  pipe  he's  to  'ave  one. 
Savvy?  Jim's  square." 

"Savvy,"  replied  the  woman,  and  she  was  wholly 


172  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

unable  to  conceal  her  relief.     "You  clear  out  now,  and 
I  tell  Kwen  Lung  when  he  come  in." 

"Righto,  Ma!"  said  Harley.  "Kiss  'im  on  both 
cheeks  for  me,  an'  tell  'im  I'll  be  'ome  again  in  a 
month." 

Grasping  me  by  the  arm  he  lurched  up  the  steps, 
and  the  two  of  us  presently  found  ourselves  out  in 
the  street  again.  In  the  growing  light  the  squalor  of 
the  district  was  more  evident  than  ever,  but  the  com- 
parative freshness  of  the  air  was  welcome  after  the 
reek  of  that  room  in  which  the  golden  idol  sat  leering, 
with  blood  at  his  feet. 

"You  saw,  Harley?"  I  exclaimed  excitedly.     "You 
saw  the  stains?     And  I'm  certain  the  window  was 
broken!" 
.Harley  nodded  shortly. 

"Back  to  Wade  Street!"  he  said.  "I  allow  myself 
fifteen  minutes  to  shed  Bill  Jones,  able  seaman,  and 
to  become  Paul  Harley,  of  Chancery  Lane." 

As  we  hurried  along: 

"What  steps  shall  you  take?"  I  asked. 

"First  step :  search  Kwen  Lung's  house  from  cellar 
to  roof.  Second  step :  entirely  dependent  upon  result 
of  first.  The  Chinese  are  subtle,  Knox.  If  Kwen 
Lung  has  killed  his  daughter,  it  may  require  all  the 
resources  of  Scotland  Yard  to  prove  it." 

"But " 

"There  is  no  'but'  about  it.  Chinatown  is  the  one 
district  of  London  which  possesses  the  property  of 
swallowing  people  up." 


Ill 


"CAPTAIN  DAN" 


HALF  an  hour  later,  as  I  sat  in  the  inner  room 
before   the    great   dressing-table    laboriously 
removing  my  disguise — for  I  was  utterly  in- 
capable  of  metamorphosing   myself   like   Harley   in 
seven  minutes — I  heard  a  rapping  at  the  outer  door. 
I  glanced  nervously  at  my  face  in  the  mirror. 

Comparatively  little  of  "Jim"  had  yet  been  re- 
moved, for  since  time  was  precious  to  my  friend  I  had 
acted  as  his  dresser  before  setting  to  work  to  remove 
my  own  make-up.  There  were  two  entrances  to  the 
establishment,  by  one  of  which  Paul  Harley  invariably 
entered  and  invariably  went  out,  and  from  the  other 
of  which  "Bill  Jones"  was  sometimes  seen  to  emerge, 
but  never  Paul  Harley.  That  my  friend  had  made  good 
his  retirement  I  knew,  but,  nevertheless,  if  I  had  to 
open  the  door  of  the  outer  room  it  must  be  as  "Jim." 

Thinking  it  impolite  not  to  do  so,  since  the  one 
who  knocked  might  be  aware  that  we  had  come  in  but 
not  gone  out  again,  I  hastily  readjusted  that  side  of 
my  moustache  which  I  had  begun  to  remove,  replaced 
my  cap  and  muffler,  and  carefully  locking  the  door  of 
the  dressing-room,  crossed  the  outer  apartment  and 
opened  the  door. 

173 


i74  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

It  was  Harley's  custom  never  to  enter  or  leave  these 
rooms  except  under  the  mantle  of  friendly  night,  but 
at  so  early  an  hour  I  confess  I  had  not  expected  a 
visitor.  Wondering  whom  I  should  find  there  I 
opened  the  door. 

Standing  on  the  landing  was  a  fellow-lodger  who 
permanently  occupied  the  two  top  rooms  of  the  house. 
Paul  Harley  had  taken  the  trouble  to  investigate  the 
man's  past,  for  "Captain  Dan,"  the  name  by  which  he 
was  known  in  the  saloons  and  worse  resorts  which  he 
frequented,  was  palpably  a  broken-down  gentleman; 
a  piece  of  flotsam  caught  in  the  yellow  stream.  Opium 
had  been  his  downfall.  How  he  lived  I  never  knew, 
but  Harley  Relieved  he  had  some  small  but  settled 
income,  sufficient  to  enable  him  to  kill  himself  in 
comfort  with  the  black  pills. 

As  he  stood  there  before  me  in  the  early  morning 
light,  I  was  aware  of  some  subtle  change  in  his  appear- 
ance. It  was  fully  six  months  since  I  had  seen  him 
last,  but  in  some  vague  way  he  looked  younger.  Hag- 
gard he  was,  with  an  ugly  cut  showing  on  his  temple, 
but  not  so  lined  as  I  remembered  him.  Some  former 
man  seemed  to  be  struggling  through  the  opium- 
scarred  surface.  His  eyes  were  brighter,  and  I  noted 
with  surprise  that  he  wore  decent  clothes  and  was 
clean  shaved. 

"Good  morning,  Jim,"  he  said;  "you  remember  me, 
don't  you?" 

As  he  spoke  I  observed,  too,  that  his  manner  had 
altered.  He  who  had  consorted  with  the  sweepings 
of  the  doss-houses  now  addressed  me  as  a  courteous 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GOLDEN  JOSS        175 

gentleman  addresses  an  inferior — not  haughtily  or 
patronizingly,  but  with  a  note  of  conscious  superiority 
and  self-respect  wholly  unfamiliar.  Almost  it  threw 
me  off  my  guard,  but  remembering  in  the  nick  of  time 
that  I  was  still  "Jim"  : 

"Of  course  I  remember  you,  Cap'n,"  I  said.  "Step 
inside." 

"Thanks,"  he  replied,  and  followed  me  into  the 
little  room. 

I  placed  for  him  the  arm-chair  which  our  friend 
the  fireman  had  so  recently  occupied,  but : 

"I  won't  sit  down,"  he  said. 

And  now  I  observed  that  he  was  evidently  in  a 
condition  of  repressed  excitement.  Perhaps  he  saw 
the  curiosity  in  my  glance,  for  he  suddenly  rested 
both  his  hands  on  my  shoulders,  and : 

"Yes,  I  have  given  up  the  dope,  Jim,"  he  said — 
"done  with  it  for  ever.  There's  not  a  soul  in  this 
neighbourhood  I  can  trust,  yet  if  ever  a  man  wanted 
a  pal,  I  want  one  to-day.  Now,  you're  square,  my 
lad.  I  always  knew  that,  in  spite  of  the  dope;  and 
if  I  ask  you  to  do  a  little  thing  that  means  a  lot  to  me, 
I  think  you  will  do  it.  Am  I  right?" 

"If  it  can  be  done,  I'll  do  it,"  said  I. 

"Then,  listen.  I'm  leaving  England  in  the  Patna 
for  Singapore.  She  sails  at  noon  to-morrow,  and 
passengers  go  on  board  at  ten  o'clock.  I've  got  my 
ticket,  papers  in  order,  but" — he  paused  impressively, 
grasping  my  shoulders  hard — "I  must  get  on  board 
to-night" 

I  stared  him  in  the  face. 


176  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

He  returned  my  look  with  one  searching  and  eager; 
then: 

"If  I  show  you  the  reason,"  said  he,  "and  trust  you 
with  all  my  papers,  will  you  go  down  to  the  dock — 
it's  no  great  distance — and  ask  to  see  Marryat,  the 
chief  officer?  Perhaps  you've  sailed  with  him?" 

"No,"  I  replied  guardedly.  "I  was  never  in  the 
Tatna." 

"Never  mind.  When  you  give  him  a  letter  which 
I  shall  write  he  will  make  the  necessary  arrangements 
for  me  to  occupy  my  state-room  to-night.  I  knew  {iim 
well,"  he  explained,  "in — the  old  days.  Will  you  do 
it,  Jim?" 

"I'll  do  it  with  pleasure,"  I  answered. 

"Shake!"  said  Captain  Dan. 

We  shook  hands  heartily,  and : 

"Now  I'll  show  you  the  reason,"  he  added.  "Come 
upstairs." 

Turning,  he  led  the  way  upstairs  to  his  own  room, 
and  wondering  greatly,  I  followed  him  in.  Never 
having  been  in  Captain  Dan's  apartments  I  cannot 
say  whether  they,  like  their  occupant,  had  changed  for 
the  better.  But  I  found  myself  in  a  room  surprisingly 
clean  and  with  a  note  of  culture  in  its  appointments 
which  was  even  more  surprising. 

On  a  couch  by  the  window,  wrapped  in  a  fur  rug, 
lay  the  prettiest  half-caste  girl  I  had  ever  seen,  East 
or  West.  Her  skin  was  like  cream  rose  petals  and 
her  abundant  hair  was  of  wonderful  lustrous  black. 
Perhaps  it  was  her  smooth  warm  colour  which  sug- 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GOLDEN  JOSS        177 

•gested  the  idea,  but  as  her  cheeks  flushed  at  sight  of 
Captain  Dan  and  the  long  dark  eyes  lighted  up  in 
welcome,  I  thought  of  a  delicate  painting  on  ivory 
and  I  wondered  more  and  more  what  it  all  could  mean. 

"I  have  brought  Jim  to  see  you,"  said  Captain  Dan. 
"No,  don't  trouble  to  move  dear." 

But  even  before  he  had  spoken  I  had  seen  the  girl 
wince  with  pain  as  she  had  endeavoured  to  sit  up  to 
greet  us.  She  lay  on  her  side  in  a  rather  constrained 
attitude,  but  although  her  sudden  movement  had 
brought  tears  to  her  eyes  she  smiled  bravely  and  ex- 
tended a  tiny  ivory  hand  to  me. 

"This  is  my  wife,  Jim!"  said  Captain  Dan. 

I  could  find  no  words  at  all,  but  merely  stood  there 
looking  very  awkward  and  feeling  almost  awed  by  the 
indescribable  expression  of  trust  in  the  eyes  of  the 
little  Eurasian,  as  with  her  tiny  fingers  hidden  in  her 
husband's  clasp  she  lay  looking  up  at  him. 

"Now  you  know,  Jim,"  said  he,  "why  we  must  get 
aboard  the  Patna  to-night.  My  wife  is  really  too  ill 
to  travel;  in  fact,  I  shall  have  to  carry  her  down  to 
the  cab,  and  such  a  proceeding  in  daylight  would 
attract  an  enormous  crowd  in  this  neighbourhood!" 

"Give  me  the  letters  and  the  papers,"  I  answered. 
"I  will  start  now." 

His  wife  disengaged  her  hand  and  extended  it  to 
me. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  in  a  queer  little  silver-bell 
voice;  "you  are  good.  I  shall  always  love  you." 


IV 

THE   SECRET  OF  MA  LORENZO 

IT  MUST  have  been   about   eleven   o'clock   that 
night  when  Paul  Harley  rang  me  up.     Since  we 
had  parted  in  the  early  morning  I  had  had  no 
word  from  him,  and  1  was  all  anxiety  to  tell  him  of 
the  quaint  little  romance  which  unknown  to  us  had 
had  its  setting  in  the  room  above. 

In  accordance  with  my  promise  I  had  seen  the  chief 
officer  of  the  Patna;  and  from  the  start  of  surprise 
which  he  gave  on  opening  "Captain  Dan's"  letter,  I 
judged  that  Mr.  Marryat  and  the  man  who  for  so 
long  had  sunk  to  the  lowest  rung  of  the  ladder  had 
been  close  friends  in  those  uold  days."  At  any  rate, 
he  had  proceeded  to  make  the  necessary  arrangements 
without  a  moment's  delay,  and  the  couple  were  to  go 
on  board  the  Patna  at  nine  o'clock. 

It  was  with  a  sense  of  having  done  at  least  one 
good  deed  that  I  finally  quitted  our  Limehouse  base 
and  returned  to  my  rooms.  Now,  at  eleven  o'clock 
at  night: 

"Can  you  come  round  to  Chancery  Lane  at  once?" 
said  Harley.  "I  want  you  to  run  down  to  Pennyfields 
with  me." 

"Some  development  in  the  Kwen  Lung  business?" 

178 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GOLDEN  JOSS        179 

"Hardly  a  development,  but  I'm  not  satisfied,  Knox. 
I  hate  to  be  beaten." 

Twenty  minutes  later  I  was  sitting  in  Harley's  study, 
watching  him  restlessly  promenading  up  and  down  be- 
fore the  fire. 

"The  police  searched  Kwen  Lung's  place  from  foun- 
dation to  tiles,"  he  said.  "I  was  there  myself.  Old 
Kwen  Lung  conveniently  kept  out  of  the  way — still 
playing  fan-tan,  no  doubt !  But  Ma  Lorenzo  was  in 
evidence.  She  blandly  declared  that  Kwen  Lung 
never  had  a  daughter !  And  in  the  absence  of  our 
friend  the  fireman,  who  sailed  in  the  Seahawk,  and 
whose  evidence,  by  the  way,  is  legally  valueless — what 
could  we  do?  They  could  find  nobody  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood prepared  to  state  that  Kwen  Lung  had  a 
daughter  or  that  Kwen  Lung  had  no  daughter.  There 
are  all  sorts  of  fables  about  the  old  fox,  but  the  facts 
about  him  are  harder  to  get  at." 

"But,"  I  explained,  "the  bloodstains  on  the  joss!" 

"Ma  Lorenzo  stumbled  and  fell  there  on  the  pre- 
vious night,  striking  her  skull  against  the  foot  of  the 
figure." 

"What  nonsense!"  I  cried.  "We  should  have  seen 
the  wound  last  night." 

"We  might  have  done,"  said  Harley  musingly;  "I 
don't  know  when  she  inflicted  it  on  herself;  but  I  did 
see  it  this  morning." 

"What!" 

"Oh,  the  gash  is  there  all  right,  partly  covered  by 
her  hair." 

He  stood  still,  staring  at  me  oddly. 


i8o  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"One  meets  with  cases  of  singular  devotion  in  un- 
expected quarters  sometimes,"  he  said. 

"You  mean  that  the  woman  inflicted  the  wound 
upon  herself  in  order " 

"To  save  old  Kwen  Lung — exactly!  It's  marvellous." 

"Good  heavens!"  I  exclaimed.  "And  the  win- 
dow?" 

"Oh!  it  was  broken  right  enough — by  two  drunken 
sailormen  fighting  in  the  court  outside!  Sash  and 
everything  smashed  to  splinters." 

He  began  irritably  to  pace  the  carpet  again. 

"It  must  have  been  a  devil  of  a  fight!"  he  added 
savagely. 

"Meanwhile,"  said  I,  "where  is  old  Kwen  Lung  hid- 
ing?" 

"But  more  particularly,"  cried  Harley,  "where  has 
he  hidden  the  poor  victim?  Come  along,  Knox!  I'm 
going  down  there  for  a  final  look  round." 

"Of  course  the  premises  are  being  watched?" 

"Of  course — and  also,  of  course,  I  shall  be  the 
laughing  stock  of  Scotland  Yard  if  nothing  results." 

It  was  close  on  midnight  when  once  more  I  found 
myself  in  Pennyfields.  Carried  away  by  Harley's 
irritable  excitement  I  had  quite  forgotten  the  romance 
of  Captain  Dan;  and  when,  having  exchanged  greet- 
ings with  the  detective  on  duty  hard  by  the  house  of 
Kwen  Lung,  we  presently  found  ourselves  in  the  pres- 
ence of  Ma  Lorenzo,  I  scarcely  knew  for  a  moment 
if  I  were  "Jim"  or  my  proper  self. 

"Is  Kwen  Lung  in?"  asked  Harley  sternly. 

The  woman  shook  her  head. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GOLDEN  JOSS        181 

"No,"  she  replied;  "he  sometimes  stop  away  a 
whole  week." 

"Does  he  ?"  jerked  Harley.  "Come  in,  Knox ;  we'll 
take  another  look  round." 

A  moment  later  I  found  myself  again  in  the  room 
of  the  golden  joss.  The  red  curtain  had  been  re- 
moved from  before  the  shattered  window,  but  other- 
wise the  place  looked  exactly  as  it  had  looked  before. 
The  atmosphere  was  much  less  stale,  however,  but 
there  was  something  repellent  about  the  great  gilded 
idol  smiling  eternally  from  his  pedestal  beside  the  door. 

I  stared  into  the  leering  face,  and  it  was  the  face 
of  one  who  knew  and  who  might  have  said:  "Yes! 
this  and  other  things  equally  strange  have  I  beheld 
in  many  lands  as  well  as  England.  Much  I  could  tell. 
Many  things  grim  and  terrible,  and  some  few  joyous; 
for  behold !  I  smile  but  am  silent." 

For  a  while  Harley  stared  abstractedly  at  the  blood- 
stains on  the  pedestal  of  the  joss  and  upon  the  floor 
beneath  from  which  the  matting  had  been  pulled  back. 
Suddenly  he  turned  to  Ma  Lorenzo : 

"Where  have  you  hidden  the  body?"  he  demanded. 

Watching  her,  I  thought  I  saw  the  woman  flinch, 
but  there  was  enough  of  the  Oriental  in  her  composi- 
tion to  save  her  from  self-betrayal.  She  shook  her 
head  slowly,  watching  Harley  through  half-closed  eyes. 

"Nobody  hab,"  she  replied. 

And  I  thought  for  once  that  her  lapse  into  pidgin 
had  been  deliberate  and  not  accidental. 

When  finally  we  quitted  the  house  of  the  missing 
Kwen  Lung,  and  when,  Harley  having  curtly  acknow- 


1 82  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

ledged  "good  night"  from  the  detective  on  duty,  we 
came  out  into  Limehouse  Causeway. 

uYou  have  not  overlooked  the  possibility,  Harley," 
I  said,  uthat  this  woman's  explanation  may  be  true, 
and  that  the  fireman  of  the  Seahawk  may  have  been 
entertaining  us  with  an  account  of  a  weird  dream?" 

"No!"  snapped  Harley — "neither  will  Scotland 
Yard  overlook  it." 

He  was  in  a  particularly  impossible  mood,  for  he 
so  rarely  made  mistakes  that  to  be  detected  in  one 
invariably  brought  out  those  petulant  traits  of  char- 
acter which  may  have  been  due  in  some  measure  to 
long  residence  in  the  East.  Recognizing  that  he 
would  rather  be  alone  I  parted  from  him  at  the  corner 
of  Chancery  Lane  and  returned  to  my  own  chambers. 
Furthermore,  I  was  very  tired,  for  it  was  close  upon 
two  o'clock,  and  on  turning  in  I  very  promptly  went 
to  sleep,  nor  did  I  awaken  until  late  in  the  morning. 

For  some  odd  reason,  but  possibly  because  the  fact 
had  occurred  to  me  just  as  I  was  retiring,  I  remem- 
bered at  the  moment  of  waking  that  I  had  not  told 
Harley  about  the  romantic  wedding  of  Captain  Dan. 
As  I  had  left  my  friend  in  very  ill  humour  I  thought 
that  this  would  be  a  good  excuse  for  an  early  call,  and 
just  before  eleven  o'clock  I  walked  into  his  office. 
Innes,  his  invaluable  secretary,  showed  me  into  the 
study  at  the  back. 

"Hallo,  Knox,"  said  Harley,  looking  up  from  a 
little  silver  Buddha  which  he  was  examining,  "have 
you  come  to  ask  for  news  of  the  Kwen  Lung  case?" 

"No,"  I  replied.     "Is  there  any?" 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GOLDEN  JOSS        183 

Harley  shook  his  head. 

"It  seems  like  fate,"  he  declared,  "that  this  thing 
should  have  been  sent  to  me  this  morning."  He  in- 
dicated the  silver  Buddha.  "A  present  from  a  friend 
who  knows  my  weakness  for  Chinese  ornaments,"  he 
explained  grimly.  "It  reminds  me  of  that  damned 
joss  of  Kwen  Lung's!" 

I  took  up  the  little  image  and  examined  it  with 
interest.  It  was  most  beautifully  fashioned  in  the 
patient  Oriental  way,  and  there  was  a  little  hinged 
door  in  the  back  which  fitted  so  perfectly  that  when 
closed  it  was  quite  impossible  to  detect  its  presence. 
I  glanced  at  Harley. 

"I  suppose  you  didn't  find  a  jewel  inside?"  I  said 
lightly. 

"No,"  he  replied;  "there  was  nothing  inside." 

But  even  as  he  uttered  the  words  his  whole  expres- 
sion changed,  and  so  suddenly  as  to  startle  me.  He 
sprang  up  from  the  table,  and : 

"Have  you  an  hour  to  spare,  Knox?"  he  cried  ex- 
citedly. 

"I  can  spare  an  hour,  but  what  for?" 

"For  Kwen  Lung!" 

Four  minutes  later  we  were  speeding  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Limehouse,  and  not  a  word  of  explanation  to 
account  for  this  sudden  journey  could  I  extract  from 
my  friend.  Therefore  I  beguiled  the  time  by  telling 
him  of  my  adventure  with  Captain  Dan. 

Harley  listened  to  the  story  in  unbroken  silence, 
but  at  its  termination  he  brought  his  hand  down 
sharply  on  my  knee. 


i84  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"I  have  been  almost  perfectly  blind,  Knox,"  he 
said;  "but  not  quite  so  perfectly  blind  as  you!" 

I  stared  at  him  in  amazement,  but  he  merely 
laughed  and  offered  no  explanation  of  his  words. 

Presently,  then,  I  found  myself  yet  again  in  the 
familiar  room  of  the  golden  joss.  Ma  Lorenzo,  in 
whom  some  hidden  anxiety  seemed  to  have  increased 
since  I  had  last  seen  her,  stood  at  the  top  of  the  stairs 
watching  us.  Upon  what  idea  my  friend  was  oper- 
ating and  what  he  intended  to  do  I  could  not  imagine ; 
but  without  a  word  to  the  woman  he  crossed  the  room 
and  grasping  the  great  golden  idol  with  both  arms  he 
dragged  it  forward  across  the  floor! 

As  he  did  so  there  was  a  stifled  shriek,  and  Ma 
Lorenzo,  stumbling  down  the  steps,  threw  herself  on 
her  knees  before  Harley !  Raising  imploring  hands : 

"No,  no!"  she  moaned.  "Not  until  I  tell  you — I 
tell  you  everything  first!" 

"To  begin  with,  tell  me  how  to  open  this  thing,"  he 
said  sternly. 

Momentarily  she  hesitated,  and  did  not  rise  from 
her  knees,  but: 

"Do  you  hear  me?"  he  cried. 

The  woman  rose  unsteadily  and  walking  slowly 
round  the  joss  manipulated  some  hidden  fastening, 
whereupon  the  entire  back  of  the  thing  opened  like  a 
door!  From  what  was  within  she  shudderingly 
averted  her  face,  but  Harley,  stepping  back  against 
the  wall,  stopped  and  peered  into  the  cavity. 

"Good  God!"  he  muttered.  "Come  and  look, 
Knox." 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GOLDEN  JOSS        185 

Prepared  by  his  manner  for  some  gruesome  spec- 
tacle, I  obeyed — and  from  that  which  I  saw  I  recoiled 
in  horror. 

"Harley,"  I  whispered,  "Harley!  who  is  it?" 

The  spectacle  had  truly  sickened  me.  Crouched 
within  the  narrow  space  enclosed  by  the  figure  of  the 
idol  was  the  body  of  an  old  and  wrinkled  Chinaman ! 
His  knees  were  drawn  up  to  his  chin,  and  his  head  so 
compressed  upon  them  that  little  of  his  features  could 
be  seen. 

"It  is  Kwen  Lung!"  murmured  Ma  Lorenzo, 
standing  with  clasped  hands  and  wild  eyes  over  by 
the  window.  "Kwen  Lung — and  I  am  glad  he  is 
dead!" 

Such  a  note  of  hatred  came  into  her  voice  as  I  had 
never  heard  in  the  voice  of  any  woman. 

"He  is  vile,  a  demon,  a  mocking  cruel  demon! 
Long,  long  years  ago  I  would  have  killed  him,  but 
always  I  was  afraid.  I  tell  you  everything,  every- 
thing. This  is  how  he  comes  to  be  dead.  The  little 
one" — again  her  voice  changed  and  a  note  of  almost 
grotesque  tenderness  came  into  it — "the  lotus-flower, 
that  is  his  own  daughter's  child,  flesh  of  his  flesh,  he 
keeps  a  prisoner  as  the  women  of  China  are  kept,  up 
there" — she  raised  one  fat  finger  aloft — "up  above. 
He  does  not  know  that  someone  comes  to  see  her — 
someone  who  used  to  come  to  smoke  but  who  gave  it 
up  because  he  had  looked  into  the  dear  one's  eyes. 
He  does  not  know  that  she  goes  with  me  to  sec  her 
man.  Ah!  we  think  he  does  not  know!  I — I  ar- 
range it  all.  A  week  ago  they  were  married.  On 


1 86  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

Tuesday  night,  when  Kwen  Lung  die,  I  plan  for  her  to 
steal  away  for  ever,  for  ever." 

Tears  now  were  running  down  the  woman's  fat 
cheeks,  and  her  voice  quivered  emotionally. 

"For  me  it  is  the  end,  but  for  her  it  is  the  begin- 
ning of  life.  All  right!  I  don't  matter  a  damn! 
She  is  young  and  beautiful.  Ah,  God!  so  beautiful! 
A  drunken  pig  comes  here  and  finds  his  way  in,  so 
I  give  him  the  smoke  and  presently  he  sleeps,  but  it 
makes  delay,  and  I  don't  know  how  soon  Kwen  Lung, 
that  yellow  demon,  will  wake.  For  he  is  like  the  bats 
who  sleep  all  day  and  wake  at  night. 

"At  last  the  sailor  pig  sleeps  and  I  call  softly  to 
my  dear  little  one  that  the  time  has  come.  I  have 
gone  out  into  the  street,  locking  the  door  behind  me, 
to  see  if  her  man  is  waiting,  and  I  hear  her  shrieks — 
her  shrieks!  I  hurry  back.  My  hands  tremble  so 
much  that  I  can  scarcely  unlock  the  door.  At  last  I 
enter,  and  I  see  and  I  know — that  yellow  devil  has 
learned  all  and  has  been  playing  with  us  like  cat  and 
mouse !  He  is  lashing  her,  with  a  great  whip !  Lash- 
ing her — that  tiny,  sweet  flower.  Ah  I" 

She  choked  in  her  utterance,  and  turning  to  the 
gilded  joss  which  contained  the  dead  Chinaman  she 
shook  her  clenched  hands  at  it,  and  the  expression  on 
her  face  I  can  never  forget.  Then : 

"As  I  shriek  curses  at  him,  crash  goes  the  window 
— and  I  see  her  husband  spring  into  the  room!  The 
tender  one  had  fallen,  there  at  the  foot  of  the  joss, 
and  Kwen  Lung,  his  teeth  gleaming — like  a  rat — like 
a  devil — turns  to  meet  him.  So  he  is  when  her  man 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GOLDEN  JOSS        187 

strike  him,  once.  Just  once,  here."  She  rested  her 
hand  upon  her  heart.  "And  he  falls — and  he  coughs. 
He  lie  still.  For  him  it  is  finished.  That  devil  heart 
has  ceased  to  beat.  Ah!" 

She  threw  up  her  hands,  and : 

"That  is  all.     I  tell  you  no  more." 

"One  thing  more,"  said  Harley  sternly;  "the  name 
of  the  man  who  killed  Kwen  Lung?" 

At  that  Ma  Lorenzo  slowly  raised  her  head  and 
folded  her  arms  across  her  bosom.  There  was  some- 
thing one  could  never  forget  in  the  expression  of  her 
fat  face. 

"Not  if  you  burn  me  alive!"  she  answered  in  a  low 
voice.  "No  one  ever  knows  that — from  me." 

She  sank  on  to  the  divan  and  buried  her  face  in 
her  hands.  Her  fat  shoulders  shook  grotesquely; 
and  Harley  stood  perfectly  still  staring  across  at  her 
for  fully  a  minute.  I  could  hear  voices  in  the  street 
outside  and  the  hum  of  traffic  in  Limehouse  Causeway. 

Then  my  friend  did  a  singular  thing.  Walking 
over  to  the  gilded  joss  he  reclosed  the  opening  and 
not  without  a  great  effort  pushed  the  great  idol  back 
against  the  wall. 

"There  are  times,  Knox,"  he  said,  staring  at  me 
oddly,  "when  I'm  glad  that  I  am  not  an  official  agent 
of  the  law." 

While  I  watched  him  dumfounded  he  walked  across 
to  the  woman  and  touched  her  on  the  shoulder.  She 
raised  her  tear-stained  face. 

"All  right,"  she  whispered.     "I  am  ready." 

"Get  ready  as  soon  as  you  like,"  said  he  tersely. 


1 88  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"I'll  have  the  man  removed  who  is  watching  the  house, 
and  you  can  reckon  on  forty-eight  hours  to  make  your- 
self scarce." 

With  never  another  word  he  seized  me  by  the  arm 
and  hurried  me  out  of  the  place !  Ten  paces  along 
the  street  a  shabby-looking  fellow  was  standing,  lean- 
ing against  a  pillar.  Harley  stopped,  and: 

"Even  the  greatest  men  make  mistakes  sometimes, 
Hewitt,"  he  remarked.  "I'm  throwing  up  the  case; 
probably  Inspector  Wessex  will  do  the  same.  Good 
morning." 

On  towards  the  Causeway  he  led  me — for  not  a 
word  was  I  capable  of  uttering;  and  just  before  we 
reached  that  artery  of  Chinatown,  from  down-river 
came  the  deep,  sustained  note  of  a  steamer's  siren,  the 
warning  of  some  big  liner  leaving  dock. 

"That  will  be  the  Patna,"  said  Harley.  "She  sails 
at  twelve  o'clock,  I  think  you  said?" 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  SHAVEN  SKULL 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  SHAVEN  SKULL 

I 

A  STRANGE  DISAPPEARANCE 

PULL  that  light  lower,"  ordered  Inspector 
Wessex.  "There  you  are,  Mr.  Harley; 
what  do  you  make  of  it?" 

Paul  Harley  and  I  bent  gingerly  over  the  ghastly 
exhibit  to  which  the  C.I.D.  official  had  drawn  our 
attention,  and  to  view  which  we  had  journeyed  from 
Chancery  Lane  to  Wapping. 

This  was  the  body  of  a  man  dressed  solely  in  ragged 
shirt  and  trousers.  But  the  remarkable  feature  of 
his  appearance  lay  in  the  fact  that  every  scrap  of  hair 
from  chin,  lip,  eyebrows  and  skull  had  been  shaved 
off! 

There  was  another  facial  disfigurement,  peculiarly 
and  horribly  Eastern,  which  my  pen  may  not  describe. 

"Impossible  to  identify!"  murmured  Harley.  "Yes, 
you  were  right,  Inspector;  this  is  a  victim  of  Oriental 
deviltry.  Look  here,  too!" 

He  indicated  three  small  wounds,  one  situated  on 
the  left  shoulder  and  the  others  on  the  forearm  of  the 
dead  man. 

"The  divisional  surgeon  cannot  account  for  them," 
replied  Wessex.  "They  are  quite  superficial,  and  he 

191 


i92  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

thinks  they  may  be  due  to  the  fact  that  the  body  got 
entangled  with  something  in  the  river." 

"They  are  due  to  the  fact  that  the  man  had  a  birth- 
mark on  his  shoulder  and  something — probably  a 
name  or  some  device — tattooed  on  his  arm,"  said  Har- 
ley  quietly.  "Some  few  years  ago,  I  met  with  a  simi- 
lar case  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Stambul.  A 
woman,"  he  added,  significantly. 

Detective-Inspector  Wessex  listened  to  my  com- 
panion with  respect,  for  apart  from  his  established 
reputation  as  a  private  inquiry-agent  which  had  made 
his  name  familiar  in  nearly  every  capital  of  the  civil- 
ized world,  Paul  Harley's  work  in  Constantinople 
during  the  six  months  preceding  war  with  Turkey 
had  merited  higher  reward  than  it  had  ever  received. 
Had  his  recommendations  been  adopted  the  course  of 
history  must  have  been  materially  changed. 

"You  think  it's  a  Chinatown  case,  then,  Mr.  Har- 
ley?" 

"Possibly,"  was  the  guarded  answer. 

Paul  Harley  nodded  to  the  constable  in  charge, 
and  the  ghastly  figure  was  promptly  covered  up  again. 
My  friend  stood  staring  vacantly  at  Wessex,  and  pre- 
sently : 

"The  chief  actor,  I  think,  will  prove  to  be  not 
Chinese,"  he  said,  turned,  and  walked  out. 

"If  there's  any  development,"  remarked  Wessex 
as  the  three  of  us  entered  Harley's  car,  which  stood  at 
the  door,  "I  will,  of  course,  report  to  you,  Mr.  Har- 
ley. But  in  the  absence  of  any  clue  or  mark  of  identi- 
fication, I  fear  the  verdict  will  be,  'Body  of  a  man 


THE  SHAVEN  SKULL  193 

unknown,'  etc.,  which  has  marked  the  finish  of  a  good 
many  in  this  cheerful  quarter  of  London." 

"Quite  so,"  said  Harley,  absently.  "It  presents 
extraordinary  features,  though,  and  may  not  end  as 
you  suppose.  However — where  do  you  want  me  to 
drop  you,  Wessex;  at  the  Yard?" 

"Oh  no,"  answered  Wessex.  "I  made  a  special 
visit  to  Wapping  just  to  get  your  opinion  on  the 
shaven  man.  I'm  really  going  down  to  Deepbrow  to 
look  into  that  new  disappearance  case;  the  daughter 
of  the  gamekeeper.  You'll  have  read  of  it?" 

"I  have,"  said  Harley  shortly. 

Indeed,  readers  of  the  daily  press  were  growing 
tired  of  seeing  on  the  contents  bills:  "Another  girl 
missing."  The  circumstance  (which  might  have  been 
no  more  than  coincidence)  that  three  girls  had  disap- 
peared within  the  last  eight  weeks  leaving  no  trace 
behind,  had  stimulated  the  professional  scribes  to  link 
the  cases,  although  no  visible  link  had  been  found, 
and  to  enliven  a  somewhat  dull  journalistic  season 
with  theories  about  "a  new  Mormon  menace." 

The  vanishing  of  this  fourth  girl  had  inspired  them 
to  some  startling  headlines,  and  the  case  had  interested 
me  personally  for  the  reason  that  I  was  acquainted 
with  Sir  Howard  Hepwell,  one  of  whose  gamekeepers 
was  the  stepfather  of  the  missing  Molly  Clayton. 
Moreover,  it  was  hinted  that  she  had  gone  away  in  the 
company  of  Captain  Ronald  Vane,  at  that  time  a  guest 
of  Sir  Howard's  at  the  Manor. 

In  fact,  Sir  Howard  had  'phoned  to  ask  me  if  I 
could  induce  Harley  to  run  down,  but  my  friend  had 


194  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

expressed  himself  as  disinterested  in  a  common  case 
of  elopement.  Now,  as  Wessex  spoke,  I  glanced 
aside  at  Harley,  wondering  if  the  fact  that  so  cele- 
brated a  member  of  the  C.I.D.  as  Detective-Inspector 
Wessex  had  been  put  in  charge  would  induce  him  to 
change  his  mind. 

We  were  traversing  a  particularly  noisy  and  un- 
savoury section  of  the  Commercial  Road,  and 
although  I  could  see  that  Wessex  was  anxious  to 
impart  particulars  of  the  case  to  Harley,  so  loud  was 
the  din  that  I  recognized  the  impossibility  of  con- 
versing, and  therefore: 

"Have  you  time  to  call  at  my  rooms,  Wessex?"  I 
asked. 

"Well,"  he  replied,  "I  have  three-quarters  of  an 
hour." 

"You  can  do  it  in  the  car,"  said  Harley  suddenly. 
"I  have  been  asked  to  look  into  this  case  myself,  and 
before  I  definitely  decline  I  should  like  to  hear  your 
version  of  the  matter." 

Accordingly,  we  three  presently  gathered  in  my 
chambers,  and  Wessex,  with  one  eye  on  the  clock, 
outlined  the  few  facts  at  that  time  in  his  possession 
respecting  the  missing  girl. 

Two  days  before  the  news  of  the  disappearance  had 
been  published  broadcast  under  such  headings  as  I 
have  already  indicated,  a  significant  scene  had  been 
enacted  in  the  gamekeeper's  cottage. 

Molly  Clayton,  a  girl  whose  remarkable  beauty 
had  made  her  a  central  figure  in  numerous  scandalous 
stories,  for  such  is  the  charity  of  rural  neighbours, 


THE  SHAVEN  SKULL  195 

was  detected  by  her  stepfather,  about  eight  in  the 
evening,  slipping  out  of  the  cottage. 

"Where  be  ye  goin',  hussy?"  he  demanded,  grasp- 
ing her  promptly  by  the  arm. 

"For  a  walk!"  she  replied  defiantly. 

"A  walk  wi'  that  fine  soger  from  t'  Manor !"  roared 
Bramber  furiously.  "You'll  be  sorry  yet,  you  bare- 
faced gadabout!  Must  I  tell  you  again  that  t'  man's 
a  villain?" 

The  girl  wrenched  her  arm  from  Bramber's  grasp, 
and  blazed  defiance  from  her  beautiful  eyes. 

"He  knows  how  to  respect  a  woman — what  you 
don't!"  she  retorted  hotly. 

"So  I  don't  respect  you,  my  angel?"  shouted  her 
stepfather.  "Then  you  know  what  you  can  do !  The 
door's  open  and  there's  few'll  miss  you!" 

Snatching  her  hat,  the  girl,  very  white,  made  to 
go  out.  Whereat"  the  gamekeeper,  a  brutal  man  with 
small  love  for  Molly,  and  maddened  by  her  taking 
him  at  his  word,  seized  her  suddenly  by  her  abundant 
fair  hair  and  hauled  her  back  into  the  room. 

A  violent  scene  followed,  at  the  end  of  which  Molly 
fainted  and  Bramber  came  out  and  locked  the  door. 

When  he  came  back  about  half-past  nine  the  girl 
was  missing.  She  did  not  reappear  that  night,  and 
the  police  were  advised  in  the  morning.  Their  most 
significant  discovery  was  this: 

Captain  Ronald  Vane,  on  the  night  of  Molly's  dis- 
appearance, had  left  the  Manor  House,  after  dining 
alone  with  his  host,  Sir  Howard  Hepwell,  saying  that 
he  proposed  to  take  a  stroll  as  far  as  the  Deep  Wood. 


196  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

He  never  returned! 

From  the  moment  that  Gamekeeper  Bramber  left 
his  cottage,  and  the  moment  when  Sir  Howard  Hep- 
well  parted  from  his  guest  after  dinner,  the  world 
to  which  these  two  people,  Molly  Clayton  and  Cap- 
tain Vane,  were  known,  knew  them  no  more ! 

I  was  about  to  say  that  they  were  never  seen  again. 
But  to  me  has  fallen  the  task  of  relating  how  and 
where  Paul  Harley  and  I  met  with  Captain  Vane  and 
Molly  Clayton. 

At  the  end  of  the  Inspector's  account: 

"H'm,"  said  Harley,  glancing  under  his  thick  brows 
in  my  direction,  "could  you  spare  the  time,  Knox?" 

"To  go  to  Deepbrow?"  I  asked  with  interest. 

"Yes;  we  have  ten  minutes  to  catch  the  train." 

"I'll  come,"  said  I.  "Sir  Howard  will  be  de^ 
lighted  to  see  you,  Harley." 


II 

THE   CLUE  OF  THE  PHOTOGRAPHS 

WHAT  do  you  make  of  it,  Inspector?"  asked 
my  friend. 
Detective-Inspector  Wessex  smiled,   and 
scratched  his  chin. 

"There  was  no  need  for  me  to  come  down!"  he  re- 
plied. "And  certainly  no  need  for  you,  Mr.  Harley!" 

Harley  bowed,  smiling,  at  the  implied  compliment. 

"It's  a  common  or  garden  elopement!"  continued 
the  detective.  "Vane's  reputation  is  absolutely  rot- 
ten, and  the  girl  was  clearly  infatuated.  He  must 
have  cared  a  good  bit,  too.  He'll  be  cashiered,  as 
sure  as  a  gun!" 

Leaving  Sir  Howard  at  the  Manor,  we  had  joined 
Inspector  Wessex  at  a  spot  where  the  baronet's  pre- 
serves bordered  a  narrow  lane.  Here  the  ground 
was  soft,  and  the  detective  drew  Harley's  attention 
to  a  number  of  footprints  by  a  stile. 

"I've  got  evidence  that  he  was  seen  here  with  the 
girl  on  other  occasions.  Now,  Mr.  Harley,  I'll  ask 
you  to  look  over  these  footprints." 

Harley  dropped  to  his  knees  and  made  a  brief  but 
close  examination  of  the  ground  round  about.  One 
particularly  clear  imprint  of  a  pointed  toe  he  noticed 

197 


198  T^LES  OF  CHINATOWN 

especially;  and  Wessex,  diving  into  the  pocket  of  his 
light  overcoat,  produced  a  patent-leather  shoe,  such 
as  is  used  for  evening  wear. 

"He  had  a  spare  pair  in  his  bag,"  he  explained  non- 
chalantly, "and  his  man  did  not  prove  incorruptible !" 

Harley  took1  the  shoe  and  placed  it  in  the  impres- 
sion. It  fitted  perfectly! 

"This  is  Molly  Clayton,  I  take  it?"  he  said,  indi- 
cating the  prints  of  a  woman's  foot. 

"Yes,"  assented  Wessex.  "You'll  notice  that  they 
stood  for  some  little  time  and  then  walked  off,  very 
close  together." 

Harley  nodded  absently. 

"We  lose  them  along  here,"  continued  Wessex, 
leading  up  the  lane ;  "but  at  the  corner  by  the  big  hay- 
stack they  join  up  with  the  tracks  of  a  motor-car !  I 
ask  for  nothing  clearer!  There  was  rain  that  after- 
noon, but  there's  been  none  since." 

"What  does  the  Captain's  man  think?" 

"The  same  as  I  do !  He's  not  surprised  at  any  mad- 
ness on  Vane's  part,  with  a  pretty  woman  in  the  case!" 

"The  girl  left  nothing  behind — no  note?" 

"Nothing." 

"Traced  the  car?" 

"No.  It  must  have  been  hired  or  borrowed  from  a 
long  distance  off." 

Where  the  tracks  of  the  tires  were  visible  we 
stopped,  and  Harley  made  a  careful  examination  oi 
the  marks. 

"Seems  to  have  had  a  struggle  with  her,"  he  said, 
dryly. 


THE  SHAVEN  SKULL  199 

''Very  likely  I"  agreed  Wessex,  without  interest. 

Harley  crawled  about  on  the  ground  for  some  time, 
to  the  great  detriment  of  his  Harris  tweeds,  but  finally 
arose,  a  curious  expression  on  his  face — which,  how- 
ever, the  detective  evidently  failed  to  observe. 

We  returned  to  the  Manor  House  where  Sir 
Howard  was  awaiting  us,  his  good-humoured  red  face 
more  red  than  usual ;  and  in  the  library,  with  its  sport- 
ing prints  and  its  works  for  the  most  part  dealing  with 
riding,  hunting,  racing,  and  golf  (except  for  a  sprink- 
ling of  Nat  Gould's  novels  and  some  examples  of  the 
older  workmanship  of  Whyte-Melville),  we  were 
presently  comfortably  ensconced.  On  a  side  table 
were  placed  a  generous  supply  of  liquid  refreshments, 
cigars  and  cigarettes;  so  that  we  made  ourselves  quite 
comfortable,  and  Sir  Howard  restrained  his  indigna- 
tion, until  each  had  a  glass  before  him  and  all  were 
smoking. 

"Now,"  he  began,  "what  have  you  got  to  report, 
gentlemen?  You,  Inspector,"  he  pointed  with  his 
cigar  toward  Wessex,  "have  seen  Vane's  man  and  all 
of  you  have  been  down  to  look  at  these  damned 
tracks.  I  only  want  to  hear  one  thing;  that  you  ex- 
pect to  trace  the  disgraceful  couple.  I'll  see  to  it" 
— his  voice  rose  almost  to  a  shout — "that  Vane  is 
kicked  out  of  the  service,  and  as  to  that  shameless  brat 
of  Bramber's,  I  wish  her  no  worse  than  the  black- 
guard's company!" 

"One  moment,  Sir  Howard,  one  moment,"  said 
Harley  quietly;  "there  are  always  two  sides  to  a 


case." 


200  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Harley?  There's  only 
one  side  that  interests  me — the  outrage  inflicted  upon 
my  hospitality  by  this  dirty  guest  of  mine.  For  the 
girl  I  don't  give  twopence;  she  was  bound  to  come  to 
a  bad  end." 

"Well,"  said  Harley,  "before  we  pronounce  the 
final  verdict  upon  either  of  them  I  should  like  to  inter- 
view Bramber.  Perhaps,"  he  added,  turning  to  Wes- 
sex,  "it  would  be  as  well  if  Mr.  Knox  and  I  went  alone. 
The  presence  of  an  official  detective  sometimes  awes 
this  class  of  witness." 

"Quite  right,  quite  right!"  agreed  Sir  Howard, 
waving  his  cigar  vigorously.  "Go  and  see  Bramber, 
Mr.  Harley;  tell  him  that  no  blame  attaches  to  him- 
self whatever;  also,  tell  him  with  my  compliments  that 
his  stepdaughter  is " 

"Quite  so,  quite  so,"  interrupted  Harley,  endeav- 
ouring to  hide  a  smile.  "I  understand  your  feelings, 
Sir  Howard,  but  again  I  ask  you  to  reserve  your  ver- 
dict until  all  the  facts  are  before  us." 

As  a  result,  Harley  and  I  presently  set  out  for  the 
gamekeeper's  cottage,  and  as  the  man  had  been 
warned  that  we  should  visit  him,  he  was  on  the  porch 
smoking  his  pipe.  A  big,  dark,  ugly  fellow  he  proved 
to  be,  of  a  very  forbidding  cast  of  countenance.  Hav- 
ing introduced  ourselves : 

"I  always  knowed  she'd  come  to  a  bad  end!"  de- 
clared Gamekeeper  Bramber,  almost  echoing  Sir  How- 
ard's words.  "One  o'  these  gentlemen  o'  hers  was 
sure  to  be  the  finish  of  her  I" 

"She  had  other  admirers — before  Captain  Vane?" 


THE  SHAVEN  SKULL  201 

"Aye!  the  hussy!  There  was  a  black-faced  villain 
not  six  months  since!  He  got  t'  vain  cat  to  go  to 
London  an'  have  her  photograph  done  in  a  dress  any 
decent  woman  would  'a'  blushed  to  look  at!  Like 
one  o'  these  Venuses  up  at  t'  Manor!  Good  rid- 
dance! She  took  after  her  mother!" 

The  violent  old  ruffian  was  awkward  to  examine, 
but  Harley  persevered. 

"This  previous  admirer  caused  her  to  be  photo- 
graphed in  that  way,  did  he?  Have  you  a  copy?" 

"No!"  blazed  Bramber.  "What  I  found  I  burnt! 
He  ran  off,  like  I  told  her  he  would — an'  her  cryin' 
her  eyes  out!  But  the  pretty  soger  dried  her  tears 
quick  enough!" 

"Do  you  know  this  man's  name?" 

"No.     A  foreigner,  he  was." 

"Where  were  the  photographs  done — in  London, 
you  say?" 

"Aye." 

"Do  you  know  by  what  photographer?" 

"I  don't!  An'  I  don't  care!  Piccadilly  they  had 
on  'em,  which  was  good  enough  for  me." 

"Have  you  her  picture?" 

"No!" 

"Did  she  receive  a  letter  on  the  day  of  her  disap- 
pearance?" 

"Maybe." 

"Good  day!"  said  Harley.  "And  let  me  add  that 
the  atmosphere  of  her  home  was  hardly  conducive  to 
ideal  conduct!" 

Leaving  Bramber  to  digest  this  rebuke,  we  came 


202  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

out  of  the  cottage.  Dusk  was  falling  now,  and  by  the 
time  that  we  regained  the  Manor  the  place  was  lighted 
up.  Inspector  Wessex  was  waiting  for  us  in  the  li- 
brary, and: 

"Well?"  he  said,  smiling  slightly  as  we  entered. 

"Nothing  much,"  replied  Harley  dryly,  "except 
that  I  don't  wonder  at  the  girl's  leaving  such  a 
home." 

"What's  that!  What!"  roared  a  big  voice,  and 
Sir  Howard  came  into  the  room.  "I  tell  you,  Bram- 
ber  only  had  one  fault  as  a  stepfather;  he  wasn't 
heavy-handed  enough.  A  bad  lot,  sir,  a  bad  lot!" 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Inspector  Wessex,  looking  from 
one  to  another,  "personally,  beyond  the  usual  inquiries 
at  railway  stations,  etc.,  I  cannot  see  that  we  can  do 
much  here.  Don't  you  agree  with  me,  Mr.  Harley?" 

Harley  nodded. 

"Quite,"  he  replied.  "There  is  a  late  train  to 
town  which  I  think  we  could  catch  if  we  started  at 


once." 


"Eh?"  roared  Sir  Howard;  "you're  not  going  back 
to-night?  Your  rooms  are  ready  for  you,  damn  it!" 

"I  quite  appreciate  the  kindness,  Sir  Howard,"  re- 
plied Harley;  "but  I  have  urgent  business  to  attend  to 
in  London.  Believe  me,  my  departure  is  unavoid- 
able." 

The  blue  eyes  of  the  baronet  gleamed  with  the  sim- 
ple cunning  of  his  kind. 

"You've  got  something  up  your  sleeve,"  he  roared. 
"I  know  you  have,  I  know  you  have!" 

Inspector  Wessex  looked  at  me  significantly,  but  I 


THE  SHAVEN  SKULL  203 

could  only  shrug  my  shoulders  in  reply;  for  in  these 
moods  Harley  was  as  inscrutable  as  the  Sphinx. 

However,  he  had  his  way,  and  Sir  Howard  hur- 
riedly putting  a  car  in  commission,  we  raced  for  the 
local  station  and  just  succeeded  in  picking  up  the  ex- 
press at  Claybury. 

Wessex  was  rather  silent  throughout  the  journey, 
often  glancing  in  my  friend's  direction,  but  Harley 
made  no  further  reference  to  the  case  beyond  outlining 
the  interview  with  Bramber,  until,  as  we  were  parting 
at  the  London  terminus,  Wessex  to  report  to  Scotland 
Yard  and  I  to  go  to  Harley's  rooms: 

"How  long  do  you  think  it  will  take  you  to  find 
that  photographer,  Wessex?"  he  asked.  "Piccadilly 
is  a  sufficient  clue." 

"Well,"  replied  the  Inspector,  "nothing  can  be  done 
to-night,  of  course,  but  I  should  think  by  mid-day  to- 
morrow the  matter  should  be  settled." 

"Right,"  said  Harley  shortly.  "May  I  ask  you  to 
report  the  result  to  me,  Wessex?" 

"I  will  report  without  fail." 


Ill 

ALI  OF  CAIRO 

IT  WAS  not  until  the  evening  of  the  following  day 
that  Harley  rang  me  up,  and  : 
"I  want  you  to  come  round  at  once,"  he  said 
urgently.      ''The  Deepbrow  case  is  developing  along 
lines  which  I  confess  I  had  anticipated,  but  which  are 
dramatic  nevertheless." 

Knowing  that  Harley  did  not  lightly  make  such  an 
assertion,  I  put  aside  the  work  upon  which  I  was  en- 
gaged and  hurried  around  to  Chancery  Lane.  I 
found  my  friend,  pipe  in  mouth,  walking  up  and  down 
his  smoke-laden  study  in  a.  state  which  I  knew  to  be- 
token suppressed  excitement,  and: 

"Did  Wessex  find  your  photographer?"  I  asked  on 
entering. 

uYes,"  he  replied.  "A  first-class  man,  as  I  had 
anticipated.  As  I  had  further  anticipated  he  did  a 
number  of  copies  of  the  picture  for  the  foreign  gentle- 
man —  about  fifty,  in  fact!" 

"Fifty!" 

"Yes!  Does  the  significance  of  that  fact  strike 
you?"  asked  Harley,  a  queer  smile  stealing  across  his 
tanned,  clean-shaven  face. 

"It  is  an  extraordinary  thing  for  even  an  ardent 


THE  SHAVEN  SKULL  205 

admirer  to  have  so  many  reproductions  done  of  the 
same  picture!" 

"It  is!  I  will  show  you  now  what  I  found  trodden 
into  one  of  the  footprints  where  the  struggle  took 
place  beside  the  car." 

Harley  produced  a  piece  of  thick  silk  twine. 

"What  is  it?" 

"It  is  a  link,  Knox — a  link  to  seek  which  I  really 
went  down  to  Deepbrow."  He  stared  at  me 
quizzically,  but  my  answering  look  must  have 
been  a  blank  one.  "It  is  part  of  the  tassel  of 
one  of  those  red  cloth  caps  commonly  called  in  Eng- 
land, a  fez!" 

He  continued  to  stare  at  me  and  I  to  stare  at  the 
piece  of  silk;  then: 

"What  is  the  next  move?"  I  demanded.  "Your 
new  clue  rather  bewilders  me." 

"The  next  move,"  he  said,  "is  to  retire  to  the  ad- 
joining room  and  make  ourselves  look  as  much  like  a 
couple  of  Oriental  commercial  travellers  as  our  cor- 
rectly British  appearance  will  allow  1" 

"What!"  I  cried. 

"That's  it!"  laughed  Harley.  "I  have  a  perpetual 
tan,  and  I  think  I  can  give  you  a  temporary  one  which 
I  keep  in  a  bottle  for  the  purpose." 

Twenty  minutes  later,  then,  having  quitted  Har- 
ley's  chambers  by  a  back  way  opening  into  one  of  those 
old-world  courts  which  abound  in  this  part  of  the 
metropolis,  two  quietly  attired  Eastern  gentlemen  got 
into  a  cab  at  the  corner  of  Chancery  Lane  and  pro- 
ceeded in  the  direction  of  Limchouse. 


206  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

There  are  haunts  in  many  parts  of  London  whose 
very  existence  is  unsuspected  by  all  but  the  few;  haunts 
unvisited  by  the  tourist  and  even  unknown  to  the  copy- 
hunting  pressman.  Into  a  quiet  thoroughfare  not 
three  minutes'  walk  from  the  busy  life  of  West  India 
Dock  Road,  Harley  led  the  way.  Before  a  door  sand- 
wiched in  between  the  entrance  to  a  Greek  tobaccon- 
ist's establishment  and  a  boarded  shop-front,  he  paused 
and  turned  to  me. 

"Whatever  you  see  or  hear,"  he  cautioned,  "ex- 
press no  surprise.  Above  all,  show  no  curiosity." 

He  rang  the  bell  beside  the  door,  and  almost  imme- 
diately it  was  opened  by  a  Negress,  grossly  and  repel- 
lently  ugly. 

Harley  pattered  something  in  what  sounded  like 
Arabic,  whereat  the  Negress  displayed  the  utmost 
servility,  ushering  us  into  an  ill-lighted  passage  with 
every  evidence  of  respect.  Following  this  passage  to 
its  termination,  an  inner  door  was  opened,  and  a  burst 
of  discordant  music  greeted  us,  together  with  a  wave 
of  tobacco  smoke.  We  entered. 

Despite  my  friend's  particular  injunctions  to  the 
contrary  I  gave  a  start  of  amazement. 

We  stood  in  the  doorway  of  a  fairly  large  apart- 
ment having  a  divan  round  three  of  its  sides.  This 
divan  was  occupied  by  ten  or  a  dozen  men  of  mixed 
nationalities — Arabs,  Greeks,  lascars,  and  others. 
They  smoked  cigarettes  for  the  most  part  and  sipped 
Mokha  from  little  cups.  A  girl  was  performing  a 
wriggling  dance  upon  the  square  carpet  occupying 
the  centre  of  the  floor,  accompanied  by  a  Nubian  boy 


THE  SHAVEN  SKULL  207 

who  twanged  upon  a  guitar,  and  by  most  of  the  assem- 
bled company,  who  clapped  their  hands  to  the  music 
or  droned  a  low,  tuneless  dirge. 

Shortly  after  our  entrance  the  performance  ter- 
minated, and  the  girl  retired  through  a  curtained  door- 
way at  the  farther  end  of  the  room.  Our  presence 
being  now  observed,  suspicious  glances  were  cast  in 
our  direction,  and  a  very  aged  man,  who  sat  smoking  a 
narghli  near  the  door  by  which  the  girl  had  made  her 
exit,  gravely  waved  towards  us  the  amber  mouthpiece 
which  he  held  in  his  hand. 

Harley  walked  straight  across  to  him,  I  close  at 
his  heels.  The  light  of  a  lamp  which  hung  close  by 
fell  fully  upon  my  friend's  face;  and,  rising  from  his 
seat,  the  old  man  greeted  him  with  the  dignified  and 
graceful  salutation  of  the  East.  At  his  request  we 
seated  ourselves  beside  him,  and,  while  we  all  three 
smoked  excellent  Turkish  cigarettes,  Harley  and  he 
conversed  in  a  low  tone.  Suddenly,  at  some  remark 
of  my  friend's,  our  strange  host  rose  to  his  feet,  an 
angry  frown  contracting  his  heavy  eyebrows. 

Silence  fell  upon  the  company. 

In  a  loud  and  peremptory  voice  he  called  out  some- 
thing in  Arabic. 

Instantly  I  detected  a  fellow  near  the  entrance  door, 
and  whom  I  had  not  hitherto  observed,  slipping  fur- 
tively into  the  shadow,  with  a  view,  as  I  thought,  to 
secret  departure.  He  seemed  to  be  deformed  in  some 
way  and  had  the  most  evil,  pock-marked  face  I  had 
ever  beheld  in  my  life.  Angrily,  the  majestic  old  man 
recalled  him.  Whereupon,  with  a  sort  of  animal 


208  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

snarl  quite  indescribable,  the  fellow  plucked  out  a 
knife !  Two  men  who  had  been  on  the  point  of  seiz- 
ing him  fell  back,  and : 

"Hold  him!"  shouted  Harley,  springing  forward 
—"hold  him!  It's  Ali  of  Cairo!" 

But  Harley  was  too  late.  Turning,  the  strange  and 
formidable-looking  Oriental  ran  like  the  wind!  Ere 
hand  could  be  raised  to  stay  him  he  was  through  the 
doorway ! 

"That  settles  it,"  said  Harley  grimly,  as  once  more 
I  found  myself  in  a  cab  beside  him.  "I  was  right;  but 
he'll  forestall  us!" 

"Who  will  forestall  us?"  I  asked  in  bewilderment. 

"The  biggest  villain  in  Europe,  Asia,  or  Africa!" 
cried  my  companion.  "I  have  wasted  precious  time 
to-day.  I  might  have  known."  He  drummed  irri- 
tably upon  his  knees.  "The  place  we  have  just  left 
is  a  sort  of  club,  you  understand,  Knox,  and  Hakim  is 
the  proprietor  or  host  as  well  as  being  an  old  gentle- 
man of  importance  and  authority  in  the  Moslem  world. 
I  told  him  of  my  suspicions — which  step  I  should  have 
taken  earlier — and  they  were  instantly  confirmed.  My 
man  was  there — recognized  me — and  bolted!  He'll 
forestall  us." 

"But  my  dear  fellow,"  I  said  patiently — "who  is 
this  man,  and  what  has  he  to  do  with  the  Deepbrow 
case?" 

"He  is  the  blackest  scoundrel  breathing!"  answered 
Harley  bitterly.  "As  to  what  he  has  to  do  with  the 
case — why  did  he  bolt?  At  any  rate,  I  know  where 


THE  SHAVEN  SKULL  209 

to  find  him  now — and  we  may  not  be  too  late  after 
all." 

"But  who  and  what  is  this  man?" 

"He  is  Ali  of  Cairo !  As  to  wha t  he  is — you  will 
soon  learn." 


IV 

THE  HOUSE  BY  THE  RIVER 

ON  QUITTING  the  singular  Oriental  club, 
Harley  had  first  raced  off  to  a  public  tele- 
phone, where  he  had  spoken  for  some  time — 
as  I  now  divined — to  Scotland  Yard.  For  when  we 
presently  arrived  at  the  headquarters  of  the  Metro- 
politan Police,  I  was  surprised  to  find  Inspector 
Wessex  awaiting  us.  Leaning  out  of  the  cab  win- 
dow: 

"Yes?"  called  Harley  excitedly.     "Was  I  right?" 

"You  were,  Mr.  Harley,"  answered  Wessex,  who 
seemed  to  be  no  less  excited  than  my  companion.  "I 
got  the  man's  reply  an  hour  ago." 

"I  knew  it!"  said  Harley  shortly.  "Get  in,  Wes- 
sex; we  haven't  a  minute  to  waste." 

The  Inspector  joined  us  in  the  cab,  having  first 
given  instructions  to  the  chauffeur.  As  we  set  out 
once  more: 

"You  have  had  very  little  time  to  make  the  neces- 
sary arrangements,"  continued  my  friend. 

"Time  enough,"  replied  Wessex.  "They  will  not 
be  expecting  us." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  it.  One  of  the  biggest  villains 
in  the  civilized  world  recognized  me  three  minutes  be- 

210 


THE  SHAVEN  SKULL  211 

fore  I  called  you  up  and  then  made  good  his  escape. 
However,  there  is  at  least  a  fighting  chance." 

Little  more  was  said  from  that  moment  until  the 
end  of  the  drive,  both  my  companions  seeming  to  be 
consumed  by  an  intense  eagerness  to  reach  our  desti- 
nation. At  last  the  cab  drew  up  in  a  deserted  street. 
I  had  rather  lost  my  bearings ;  but  I  knew  that  we  were 
once  more  somewhere  in  the  Chinatown  area,  and: 

"Follow  us  until  we  get  into  the  house,"  Harley 
said  to  Inspector  Wessex,  "and  wait  out  of  sight.  If 
you  hear  me  blow  this  whistle,  bring  up  the  men  you 
have  posted — as  quick  as  you  like !  But  make  it  your 
particular  business  to  see  that  no  one  gets  out!" 

Into  a  pitch-dark  yard  we  turned,  and  I  felt  a  shud- 
der of  apprehension  upon  observing  that  it  was  the 
entrance  to  a  wharf.  Dully  gleaming  in  the  moon- 
light, the  Thames,  that  grave  of  many  a  ghastly  se- 
cret, flowed  beneath  us.  Emerging  from  the  shadow 
of  the  archway,  we  paused  before  a  door  in  the  wall 
on  our  left. 

At  that  moment  something  gleamed  through  the 
air,  whizzed  past  my  ear,  and  fell  with  a  metallic 
jingle  on  the  stones! 

Instinctively  we  both  looked  up. 

At  an  unlighted  window  on  the  first  floor  I  caught  a 
fleeting  glimpse  of  a  dark  face. 

"You  were  right!"  I  said.  "Ali  of  Cairo  has  fore- 
stalled us!" 

Harley  stooped  and  picked  up  a  knife  with  a  broad 
and  very  curious  blade.  He  slipped  it  into  his  pocket, 
nonchalantly. 


2 1 2  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"All  evidence!"  he  said.  "Keep  in  the  shadow 
and  bend  down.  I  am  going  to  stand  on  your  shoul- 
ders and  get  into  that  window!" 

Wondering  at  his  daring,  I  nevertheless  obeyed; 
and  Harley  succeeded,  although  not  without  difficulty, 
in  achieving  his  purpose.  A  moment  after  he  had 
disappeared  in  the  blackness  of  the  room  above. 

"Stand  clear,  Knox!"  I  heard. 

Two  of  the  cushion  seats  sometimes  called  "poof- 
ottomans"  were  thrown  down,  and: 

"Up  you  come!"  called  Harley.  "I'll  grasp  your 
hands  if  you  can  reach." 

It  proved  no  easy  task,  but  I  finally  managed  to 
scramble  up  beside  my  friend — to  find  myself  in  a 
dark  and  stuffy  little  room. 

"This  way!"  said  Harley  rapidly — "upstairs." 

He  led  the  way  without  more  ado,  but  it  was  with 
serious  misgivings  that  I  stumbled  up  a  darkened  stair 
in  the  rear  of  my  greatly  daring  friend. 

A  pistol  cracked  in  the  darkness — and  my  fez  was 
no  longer  on  my  head ! 

Harley's  repeater  answered,  and  we  stumbled 
through  a  heavily  curtained  door  into  a  heated  room, 
the  air  of  which  was  laden  with  some  Eastern  perfume. 
In  the  dim  light  from  a  silken-shaded  lantern  a  figure 
showed,  momentarily,  darting  across  the  place  before 
us. 

Again  Harley's  pistol  spoke,  but,  as  it  seemed,  in- 
effectively. 

I  had  little  enough  opportunity  to  survey  my  sur- 
roundings; yet  even  in  those  brief,  breathless  moments 


THE  SHAVEN  SKULL  213 

I  saw  enough  of  the  place  wherein  we  stood  to  make 
me  doubt  the  evidence  of  my  senses !  Outside,  I  knew, 
lay  a  dingy  wharf,  amid  a  maze  of  mean  streets;  here 
was  an  opulently  furnished  apartment  with  a  strong 
Oriental  note  in  the  decorations! 

Snatching  an  electric  torch  from  his  pocket,  Harley 
leaped  through  a  doorway  draped  with  rich  Persian 
tapestry,  and  I  came  close  on  his  heels.  Outside  was 
darkness.  A  strong  draught  met  us;  and,  passing 
along  a  carpeted  corridor,  we  never  halted  until  we 
came  to  a  room  filled  with  the  weirdest  odds  and  ends, 
apparently  collected  from  every  quarter  of  the  globe. 

Crack! 

A  bullet  flattened  itself  on  the  wall  behind  us ! 

"Good  job  he  can't  shoot  straight!"  rapped  Harley. 

The  ray  of  the  torch  suddenly  picked  out  the  head 
and  shoulders  of  a  man  who  was  descending  through 
a  trap  in  the  floor !  Ere  we  had  time  to  shoot  he  was 
gone !  I  saw  his  brown  fingers  relax  their  hold — and 
a  bundle  which  he  had  evidently  hoped  to  take  with 
him  was  left  lying  upon  the  floor. 

Together  we  ran  to  the  trap  and  looked  down. 

Slowly  moving  tidal  water  flowed  darkly  beneath 
us!  For  twenty  breathless  seconds  we  watched — but 
nothing  showed  upon  the  surface. 

"I  hope  his  swimming  is  no  better  than  his  shoot- 
ing," I  said. 

"It  can  avail  him  little,"  replied  Harley  grimly; 
"a  river-police  boat  is  waiting  for  anyone  who  tries  to 
escape  from  that  side  of  the  house.  We  are  by  no 
means  alone  in  this  affair,  Knox.  But,  firstly,  what 


2i4  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

have  we  here!"  He  took  up  the  bundle  which  the 
fugitive  had  deserted.  "Something  incriminating 
when  Ali  of  Cairo  dared  not  stay  to  face  it  out!  He 
would  never  have  deserted  this  place  in  the  ordinary 
way.  That  fellow  who  was  such  a  bad  shot  was  left 
behind,  when  the  news  of  our  approach  reached  here, 
to  make  a  desperate  attempt  to  remove  some  piece  of 
evidence !  I'll  swear  to  it.  But  we  were  too  soon  for 
him!" 

All  the  time  he  was  busily  removing  the  pieces  of 
sacking  and  scraps  of  Oriental  stuff  with  which  the 
bundle  was  fastened;  and  finally  he  drew  out  a  dress- 
suit,  together  with  the  linen,  collar,  shoes,  and  under- 
wear— a  complete  outfit,  in  fact — and  on  top  of  the 
whole  was  a  soft  gray  felt  hat! 

Eagerly  Harley  searched  the  garments  for  some 
name  of  a  maker  by  which  their  owner  might  be  iden- 
tified. Presently,  inside  the  lining  of  the  breast 
pocket,  where  such  a  mark  is  usually  found,  he  dis- 
covered the  label  of  a  well-known  West  End  firm. 

uThe  police  can  confirm  it,  Knox!"  he  said,  looking 
up,  his  face  slightly  flushed  with  triumph;  "but  I,  per- 
sonally, have  no  doubt!" 

"You  may  have  no  doubt,  Harley,"  I  retorted,  "but 
7  am  full  of  doubt!  What  is  the  significance  of  this 
discovery  to  which  you  seem  to  attach  so  much  im- 
portance?" 

"At  the  moment,"  replied  my  friend,  "never  mind; 
I  still  have  hopes — although  they  have  grown  some- 
what slender — of  making  a  much  more  important  dis- 
covery." 


THE  SHAVEN  SKULL  215 

"Why  not  permit  the  police  to  aid  in  the  search?" 

"The  police  are  more  useful  in  their  present  occu- 
pation," he  replied.  "We  are  dealing  with  the  most 
cunning  knave  produced  by  East  or  West,  and  I  don't 
mean  to  let  him  slip  through  my  fingers  if  he  is  in 
this  house!  Nevertheless,  Knox,  I  am  submitting 
you  to  rather  an  appalling  risk,  I  know;  for  our  man 
is  desperate,  and  if  he  is  still  in  the  place  will  prove 
as  dangerous  as  a  cornered  rat." 

"But  the  man  who  dropped  through  the  trap?" 

"The  man  who  dropped  through  the  trap,"  said 
Harley,  "was  not  Ali  of  Cairo— and  it  is  Ali  of  Cairo 
for  whom  I  am  looking!" 

"The  hunchback  we  saw  to-night?" 

Harley  nodded,  and  having  listened  intently  for  a 
few  moments,  proceeded  again  to  search  the  singular 
apartments  of  the  abode.  In  each  was  evidence  of 
Oriental  occupancy;  indeed,  some  of  the  rooms  pos- 
sessed a  sort  of  Arabian  Nights  atmosphere.  But  no 
living  creature  was  to  be  seen  or  heard  anywhere.  It 
was  while  the  two  of  us,  having  examined  every  inch 
of  wall,  I  should  think,  in  the  building,  were  standing 
staring  rather  blankly  at  each  other  in  the  room  with 
the  lighted  lantern,  that  I  saw  Harley's  expression 
change. 

"Why,"  he  muttered,  "is  this  one  room  illuminated 
— and  all  the  others  in  darkness?" 

Even  then  the  significance  of  this  circumstance  was 
not  apparent  to  me.  But  Harley  stared  critically  at 
an  electric  switch  which  was  placed  on  the  immediate 
right  of  the  door  and  then  up  at  the  silk-shaded  lantern 


2 1 6  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

which  lighted  the  room.  Crossing,  he  raised  and  low- 
ered the  switch  rapidly,  but  the  lamp  continued  to 
burn  uninterruptedly! 

"Ah!"  he  said— ua  good  trick!" 

Grasping  the  wooden  block  to  which  the  switch  was 
attached,  he  turned  it  bodily — and  I  saw  that  it  was 
a  masked  knob ;  for  in  the  next  moment  he  had  pulled 
open  the  narrow  section  of  wall — which  proved  to  be 
nothing  less  than  a  cunningly  fitted  door ! 

A  small,  dimly  lighted  apartment  was  revealed,  the 
Oriental  note  still  predominant  in  its  appointments, 
which,  however,  were  few,  and  which  I  scarcely  paused 
to  note.  For  lying  upon  a  mattress  in  this  place  was 
a  pretty,  fair-haired  girl ! 

She  lay  on  her  side,  having  one  white  arm  thrown 
out  and  resting  limply  on  the  floor,  and  she  seemed 
to  be  in  a  semi-conscious  condition,  for  although  her 
fine  eyes  were  widely  opened,  they  had  a  glassy,  wit- 
less look,  and  she  was  evidently  unaware  of  our 
presence. 

"Look  at  her  pupils,"  rapped  Harley.  "They  have 
drugged  her  with  bhang!  Poor,  pretty  fool!" 

"Good  God!"  I  cried.     "Who  is  this,  Harley?" 

"Molly  Clayton!"  he  answered.  "Thank  heaven 
we  have  saved  one  victim  from  Ali  of  Cairo." 


THE    HAREM   AGENCY 

OWING  to  the  instrumentality  of  Paul  Harley, 
the  public  never  learned  that  the  awful  river- 
side murder  called  by  the  Press  in  reference 
to  the  victim's  shaven  skull  "the  barber  atrocity"  had 
any  relation  to  the  Deepbrow  case.  It  was  physically 
impossible  to  identify  the  victim,  and  Harley  had  his 
own  reasons  for  concealing  the  truth.  The  house  on 
the  wharf  with  its  choice  Oriental  furniture  was 
seized  by  the  police;  but,  strange  to  relate,  no  arrest 
was  made  in  connection  with  this  most  gruesome  out- 
rage. The  man  who  dropped  through  the  trap  had 
been  wounded  by  one  of  Harley's  shots,  and  he  sank 
for  the  last  time  under  the  very  eyes  of  the  crew  of 
the  police  cutter. 

It  was  at  a  late  hour  on  the  night  of  this  concluding 
tragedy  that  I  learned  the  amazing  truth  underlying 
the  case.  Wessex  was  still  at  work  in  the  East  End 
upon  the  hundred  and  one  formalities  which  attached 
to  his  office,  and  Harley  and  I  sat  in  the  study  of  my 
friend's  chambers  in  Chancery  Lane. 

"You  see,"  Harley  was  explaining.  "I  got  my  first 
clue  down  at  Deepbrow.  The  tracks  leading  to  the 
motor-car.  They  showed — to  anyone  not  hampered 

217 


218  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

by  a  preconceived  opinion — that  the  girl  and  Vane 
had  not  gone  on  together  (since  the  man's  footprints 
proved  him  to  have  been  running),  but  that  she  had 
gone  first  and  that  he  had  run  after  her !  Arguments : 
(a)  He  heard  the  approach  of  the  car;  or  (b)  he 
heard  her  call  for  help.  In  fact,  it  almost  immediately 
became  evident  to  me  that  someone  else  had  met  her 
at  the  end  of  the  lane;  probably  someone  who  ex- 
pected her,  and  whom  she  was  going  to  meet  when 
she,  accidentally,  encountered  Vane !  The  captain  was 
not  attired  for  an  elopement,  and,  more  significant 
still,  he  said  he  should  stroll  to  the  Deep  Wood,  and 
that  was  where  he  did  stroll  to ;  for  it  borders  the  road 
at  this  point! 

"I  had  privately  ascertained,  from  the  postman, 
that  Molly  Clayton  actually  received  a  letter  on  that 
morning!  This  resolved  my  last  doubt.  She  was 
not  going  to  meet  Vane  on  the  night  of  her  disap- 
pearance. 

"Then  whom?" 

"The  old  love !  He  who  some  months  earlier  had 
had  over  fifty  seductive  pictures  of  this  undoubtedly 
pretty  girl  prepared  for  a  purpose  of  his  own!" 

"Vane  interfered?" 

"When  the  girl  saw  that  they  meant  to  take  her 
away,  she  no  doubt  made  a  fuss!  He  ran  to  the 
rescue!  They  had  not  reckoned  on  his  being  there, 
but  these  are  clever  villains,  who  leave  no  clues — ex- 
cept for  one  who  has  met  them  on  their  own  ground!" 

"On  their  own  ground!  What  do  you  mean, 
Harley?  Who  are  these  people?" 


THE  SHAVEN  SKULL  219 

"Well — where  do  you  suppose  those  fifty  photo- 
graphs went?" 

"I  cannot  conjecture!" 

"Then  I  will  tell  you.  The  turmoil  in  the  East  has 
put  wealth  and  power  into  unscrupulous  hands.  But 
even  before  the  war  there  were  marts,  Knox — open 
marts — at  which  a  Negro  girl  might  be  purchased 
for  some  £30,  and  a  Circassian  for  anything  from 
£250  to  £500!  Ah!  You  stare!.  But  I  assure  you 
it  was  so.  Here  is  the  point,  though:  there  were, 
and  still  are,  private  dealers!  Those  photographs 
were  circulated  among  the  nouveaux  riches  of  the 
East !  They  were  employed  in  the  same  way  that 
any  other  merchant  employs  a  catalogue.  They 
reached  the  hands  of  many  an  opulent  and  abandoned 
'profiteer'  of  Damascus,  Stambul — where  you  will. 
Molly's  picture  would  be  one  of  many.  Remember 
that  hundreds  of  pretty  girls  disappear  from  their 
homes — taking  the  whole  of  the  world — every  year. 
Clearly,  English  beauty  is  popular  at  the  moment! 
And,"  he  added  bitterly,  "the  arch-villain  has 
escaped!" 

"Ali  of  Cairo !"  I  cried.      "Then  Ali  of  Cairo " 

"Is  the  biggest  slave-dealer  in  the  East!" 
"Good  God!     Harley — at  last  I  understand!" 
"I  was  slow  enough  to  understand  it  myself,  Knox. 
But  once  the  theory  presented  itself  I  asked  Wessex 
to  get  into  immediate  touch  with  the  valet  he  had 
already  interviewed  at  Deepbrow.     It  was  the  result 
of  his  inquiry  to  which  he  referred  when  we  met  him 
at  Scotland  Yard  to-night.     Captain  Vane  had  a  large 


220  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

mole  on  his  shoulder  and  a  girl's  name,  together  with 

a  small  device,  tattooed  on  his  forearm — a  freak  of 

his  Sandhurst  days " 

"Then  'the  man  with  the  shaven  skull' " 

"Is  Captain  Ronald  Vane!     May  he  rest  in  peace. 

But   /   never    shall    until    the    crook-back    dealer    in 

humanity  has  met  his  just  deserts." 


THE  WHITE  HAT 


THE  WHITE  HAT 

I 

MAJOR  JACK  RAGSTAFF 

HALLO!  Innes,"  said  Paul  Harley  as  his  secre- 
tary entered.  "Someone  is  making  a  devil 
of  a  row  outside." 

"This  is  the  offender,  Mr.  Harley,"  said  Innes,  and 
handed  my  friend  a  visiting  card. 

Glancing  at  the  card,  Harley  read  aloud: 

"Major  J.  E.  P.  Ragstaff,  Cavalry  Club." 

Meanwhile  a  loud  harsh  voice,  which  would  have 
been  audible  in  a  full  gale,  was  roaring  in  the 
lobby. 

"Nonsense !"  I  could  hear  the  Major  shouting. 
"Balderdash!  There's  more  fuss  than  if  I  had  asked 
for  an  interview  with  the  Prime  Minister.  Piffle! 
Balderdash!" 

Innes's  smile  developed  into  a  laugh,  in  which 
Harley  joined,  then: 

"Admit  the  Major,"  he  said. 

Into  the  study  where  Harley  and  I  had  been  seated 
quietly  smoking,  there  presently  strode  a  very  choleric 
Anglo-Indian.  He  wore  a  horsy  check  suit  and  white 
spats,  and  his  tie  closely  resembled  a  stock.  In  his 

223 


224  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

hand  he  carried  a  heavy  malacca  cane,  gloves,  and  one 
of  those  tall,  light-gray  hats  commonly  termed  white. 
He  was  below  medium  height,  slim  and  wiry;  his 
gait  and  the  shape  of  his  legs,  his  build,  all  proclaimed 
the  dragoon.  His  complexion  was  purple,  and  the 
large  white  teeth  visible  beneath  a  bristling  gray 
moustache  added  to  the  natural  ferocity  of  his  appear- 
ance. Standing  just  within  the  doorway: 

"Mr.  Paul  Harley?"  he  shouted. 

It  was  apparently  an  inquiry,  but  it  sounded  like  a 
reprimand. 

My  friend,  standing  before  the  fireplace,  his  hands 
in  his  pockets  and  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  nodded 
brusquely. 

"I  am  Paul  Harley,"  he  said.  "Won't  you  sit 
down?" 

Major  Ragstaff,  glancing  angrily  at  Innes  as  the 
latter  left  the  study,  tossed  his  stick  and  gloves  on  to 
a  settee,  and  drawing  up  a  chair  seated  himself  stiffly 
upon  it  as  though  he  were  in  a  saddle.  He  stared 
straight  at  Harley,  and : 

"You  are  not  the  sort  of  person  I  expected,  sir," 
he  declared.  "May  I  ask  if  it  is  your  custom  to  keep 
clients  dancin'  on  the  mat  and  all  that — on  the  blasted 
mat,  sir?" 

Harley  suppressed  a  smile,  and  I  hastily  reached  for 
my  cigarette-case  which  I  had  placed  upon  the  mantel- 
shelf. 

"I  am  always  naturally  pleased  to  see  clients,  Major 
Ragstaff,"  said  Harley,  "but  a  certain  amount  of 
routine  is  necessary  even  in  civilian  life.  You  had 


THE  WHITE  HAT  225 

not  advised  me  of  your  visit,  and  it  is  contrary  to  my 
custom  to  discuss  business  after  five  o'clock." 

As  Harley  spoke  the  Major  glared  at  him  contin- 
uously, and  then: 

"I've  seen  you  in  India!"  he  roared;  "damme!  I've 
seen  you  in  India ! — and,  yes !  in  Turkey !  Ha !  I've 
got  you  now  sir!"  He  sprang  to  his  feet.  "You're 
the  Harley  who  was  in  Constantinople  in  1912." 

"Quite  true." 

"Then  I've  come  to  the  wrong  shop." 

"That  remains  to  be  seen,  Major." 

"But  I  was  told  you  were  a  private  detective,  and 
all  that." 

"So  I  am,"  said  Harley  quietly.  "In  1912  the 
Foreign  Office  was  my  client.  I  am  now  at  the 
service  of  anyone  who  cares  to  employ  me." 

"Hell!"  said  the  Major. 

He  seemed  to  be  temporarily  stricken  speechless 
by  the  discovery  that  a  man  who  had  acted  for  the 
British  Government  should  be  capable  of  stooping  to 
the  work  of  a  private  inquiry  agent.  Staring  all  about 
the  room  with  a  sort  of  naive  wonderment,  he  drew 
out  a  big  silk  handkerchief  and  loudly  blew  his  nose, 
all  the  time  eyeing  Harley  questioningly.  Replacing 
his  handkerchief  he  directed  his  regard  upon  me,  and: 

"This  is  my  friend,  Mr.  Knox,"  said  Harley;  "you 
may  state  your  case  before  him  without  hesitation, 
unless " 

I  rose  to  depart,  but: 

"Sit  down,  Mr.  Knox!  Sit  down,  sir!"  shouted 
the  Major.  "I  have  no  dirty  linen  to  wash,  no 


226  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

skeletons  in  the  cupboard  or  piffle  of  that  kind.  I 
simply  want  something  explained  which  I  am  too 
thick-headed — too  damned  thick-headed,  sir — to  ex- 
plain myself." 

He  resumed  his  seat,  and  taking  out  his  wallet 
extracted  from  it  a  small  newspaper  cutting  which  he 
offered  to  Harley. 

"Read  that,  Mr.  Harley,"  he  directed.  "Read  it 
aloud." 

Harley  read  as  follows: 

"Before  Mr.  Smith,  at  Marlborough  Street  Police  Court,  John 
Edward  Bampton  was  charged  with  assaulting  a  well-known 
clubman  in  Bond  Street  on  Wednesday  evening.  It  was  proved 
by  the  constable  who  made  the  arrest  that  robbery  had  not  been 
the  motive  of  the  assault,  and  Bampton  confessed  that  he  bore 
no  grudge  against  the  assailed  man,  indeed,  that  he  had  never 
seen  him  before.  He  pleaded  intoxication,  and  the  police  surgeon 
testified  that  although  not  actually  intoxicated,  his  breath  had 
smelled  strongly  of  liquor  at  the  time  of  his  arrest.  Bampton's 
employers  testified  to  a  hitherto  blameless  character,  and  as  the 
charge  was  not  pressed  the  man  was  dismissed  with  a  caution." 

Having  read  the  paragraph,  Harley  glanced  at  the 
Major  with  a  puzzled  expression. 

"The  point  of  this  quite  escapes  me,"  he  confessed. 

"Is  that  so?"  said  Major  Ragstaff.  "Is  that  so, 
sir?  Perhaps  you  will  be  good  enough  to  read  this." 

From  his  wallet  he  took  a  second  newspaper  cut- 
ting, smaller  than  the  first,  and  gummed  to  a  sheet  of 
club  notepaper.  Harley  took  it  and  read  as  follows : 

"Mr.  De  Lana,  a  well-known  member  of  the  Stock  Exchange, 
who  met  with  a  serious  accident  recently,  is  still  in  a  precarious 
condition." 


THE  WHITE  HAT  227 

The  puzzled  look  on  Harley's  face  grew  more 
acute,  and  the  Major  watched  him  with  an  expression 
which  I  can  only  describe  as  one  of  fierce  enjoyment. 

"You're  thinkin'  I'm  a  damned  old  fool,  ain't  you?" 
he  shouted  suddenly. 

"Scarcely  that,"  said  Harley,  smiling  slightly,  "but 
the  significance  of  these  paragraphs  is  not  apparent, 
I  must  confess.  The  man  Bampton  would  not  appear 
to  be  an  interesting  character,  and  since  no  great  dam- 
age has  been  done,  his  drunken  frolic  hardly  comes 
within  my  sphere.  Of  Mr.  De  Lana,  of  the  Stock 
Exchange,  I  never  heard,  unless  he  happens  to  be  a 
member  of  the  firm  of  De  Lana  and  Day?" 

"He's  not  a  member  of  that  firm,  sir,"  shouted  the 
Major.  "He  was,  up  to  six  o'clock  this  evenin'." 

"What  do  you  mean  exactly?"  inquired  Harley,  and 
the  tone  of  his  voice  suggested  that  he  was  beginning 
to  entertain  doubts  of  the  Major's  sanity  or  sobriety; 
then: 

"He's  dead!"  declared  the  latter.  "Dead  as  the 
Begum  of  Bangalore!  He  died  at  six  o'clock.  I've 
just  spoken  to  his  widow  on  the  telephone." 

I  suppose  I  must  have  been  staring  very  hard  at 
the  speaker,  and  certainly  Harley  was  doing  so,  for 
suddenly  directing  his  fierce  gaze  toward  me : 

"You're  completely  treed,  sir,  and  so's  your  friend!" 
shouted  Major  Ragstaff. 

"I  confess  it,"  replied  Harley  quietly;  "and  since 
my  time  is  of  some  little  value  I  would  suggest,  with- 
out disrespect,  that  you  explain  the  connection,  if  any, 
between  yourself,  the  drunken  Bampton,  and  Mr.  De 


228  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

Lana,  of  the  Stock  Exchange,  who  died,  you  inform 
us,  at  six  o'clock  this  evening  as  the  result,  presumably, 
of  injuries  received  in  an  accident." 

"That's  what  I'm  here  for!"  cried  Major  Ragstaff. 
"In  the  first  place,  then,  I  am  the  party,  although  I 
saw  to  it  that  my  name  was  kept  out  of  print,  whom 
the  drunken  lunatic  assaulted." 

Harley,  pipe  in  hand,  stared  at  the  speaker  per- 
plexedly. 

"Understand  me,"  continued  the  Major,  "I  am  the 
person — I,  Jack  Ragstaff — he  assaulted.  I  was  walk- 
in'  down  from  my  quarters  in  Maddox  Street  on  my 
way  to  dine  at  the  club,  same  as  I  do  every  night  o'  my 
life,  when  this  flamin'  idiot  sprang  upon  me,  grabbed 
my  hat" — he  took  up  his  white  hat  to  illustrate  what 
had  occurred — "not  this  one,  but  one  like  it — pitched 
it  on  the  ground  and  jumped  on  it!" 

Harley  was  quite  unable  to  conceal  his  smiles  as  the 
excited  old  soldier  dropped  his  conspicuous  head-gear 
on  the  floor  and  indulged  in  a  vigorous  pantomime 
designed  to  illustrate  his  statement. 

"Most  extraordinary,"  said  Harley.  "What  die} 
you  do?" 

"What  did  I  do?"  roared  the  Major.  "I  gave  him 
a  crack  on  the  head  with  my  cane,  and  I  said  things 
to  him  which  couldn't  be  repeated  in  court.  I  punched 
him,  and  likewise  hoofed  him,  but  the  hat  was  com- 
pletely done  in.  Damn  crowd  collected,  hearin'  me 
swearin'  and  bellowin'.  Police  and  all  that;  names 
an'  addresses  and  all  that  balderdash.  Man  lugged 
away  to  guard-room  and  me  turnin'  up  at  the  club  with 


THE  WHITE  HAT  229 

no  hat.   Damn  ridiculous  spectacle  at  my  time  of  life." 

"Quite  so,"  said  Harley  soothingly;  "I  appreciate 
your  annoyance,  but  I  am  utterly  at  a  loss  to  under- 
stand why  you  have  come  here,  and  what  all  this  has 
to  do  with  Mr.  De  Lana,  of  the  Stock  Exchange." 

"He  fell  out  of  the  window!"  shouted  the  Major. 

"Fell  out  of  a  window?" 

"Out  of  a  window,  sir,  a  second  floor  window  ten 
yards  up  a  side  street !  Pitched  on  his  skull — marvel 
he  wasn't  killed  outright!" 

A  faint  expression  of  interest  began  to  creep  into 
Harley's  glance,  and: 

"I  understand  you  to  mean,  Major  Ragstaff,"  he 
said  deliberately,  "that  while  your  struggle  with  the 
drunken  man  was  in  progress  Mr.  De  Lana  fell  out  of 
a  neighbouring  window  into  the  street?" 

"Right!"  shouted  the  Major.     "Right,  sir!" 

"Do  you  know  this  Mr.  De  Lana?" 

"Never  heard  of  him  in  my  life  until  the  accident 
occurred.  Seems  to  me  the  poor  devil  leaned  out  to 
see  the  fun  and  overbalanced.  Felt  responsible,  only 
natural,  and  made  inquiries.  He  died  at  six  o'clock 
this  evenin',  sir." 

"H'm,"  said  Harley  reflectively.  "I  still  fail  to 
see  where  I  come  in.  From  what  window  did  he 
fall?" 

"Window  above  a  sort  of  teashop,  called  Cafe 
Dame — damn  silly  name.  Place  on  a  corner.  Don't 
know  name  of  side  street." 

"H'm.  You  don't  think  he  was  pushed  out,  for 
instance?" 


230  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"Certainly  not!"  shouted  the  Major;  "he  just  fell 
out,  but  the  point  is,  he's  dead!" 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  Harley  patiently,  "I  don't  dis- 
pute that  point;  but  what  on  earth  do  you  want  of 
me?" 

"I  don't  know  what  I  want!"  roared  the  Major, 
beginning  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room,  "but  I 
know  I  ain't  satisfied,  not  easy  in  my  mind,  sir.  I 
wake  up  of  a  night  hearin'  the  poor  devil's  yell  as  he 
crashed  on  the  pavement.  That's  all  wrong.  I've 
heard  hundreds  of  death-yells,  but" — he  took  up  his 
malacca  cane  and  beat  it  loudly  on  the  table — "I 
haven't  woke  up  of  a  night  dreamin'  I  heard  'em 
again." 

"In  a  word,  you  suspect  foul  play?" 

"I  don't  suspect  anything!"  cried  the  other  excitedly, 
"but  someone  mentioned  your  name  to  me  at  the  club 
— said  you  could  see  through  concrete,  and  all  that — 
and  here  I  am.  There's  something  wrong,  radically 
wrong.  Find  out  what  it  is  and  send  the  bill  to  me. 
Then  perhaps  I'll  be  able  to  sleep  in  peace." 

He  paused,  and  again  taking  out  the  large  silk 
handkerchief  blew  his  nose  loudly.  Harley  glanced 
at  me  in  rather  an  odd  way,  and  then : 

"There  will  be  no  bill,  Major  Ragstaff,"  he  said; 
"but  if  I  can  see  any  possible  line  of  inquiry  I  will 
pursue  it  and  report  the  result  to  you." 


II 

A    CURIOUS    OUTRAGE 

WHAT  do  you  make  of  it,  Harley?"  I  asked. 
Paul  Harley  returned  a  work  of  reference 
to  its  shelf  and  stood  staring  absently  across 
the  study. 

"Our  late  visitor's  history  does  not  help  us  much," 
he  replied.  UA  somewhat  distinguished  army  career, 
and  so  forth,  and  his  only  daughter,  Sybil  Margaret, 
married  the  fifth  Marquis  of  Ireton.  She  is,  there- 
fore, the  noted  society  beauty,  the  Marchioness  of 
Ireton.  Does  this  suggest  anything  to  your  mind?" 

"Nothing  whatever,"  I  said  blankly. 

"Nor  to  mine,"  murmured  Harley. 

The  telephone  bell  rang. 

"Hallo!"  called  Harley.  "Yes.  That  you,  Wes- 
sex?  Have  you  got  the  address?  Good.  No,  I 
shall  remember  it.  Many  thanks.  Good-bye." 

He  turned  to  me. 

"I  suggest,  Knox,"  he  said,  "that  we  make  our  call 
and  then  proceed  to  dinner  as  arranged." 

Since  I  was  always  glad  of  an  opportunity  of  study- 
ing my  friend's  methods  I  immediately  agreed,  and 
ere  long,  leaving  the  lights  of  the  two  big  hotels  be- 
hind, our  cab  was  gliding  down  the  long  slope  which 

231 


232  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

leads  to  Waterloo  Station.  Thence  through  crowded, 
slummish  high-roads  we  made  our  way  via  Lambeth 
to  that  dismal  thoroughfare,  Westminster  Bridge 
Road,  with  its  forbidding,  often  windowless,  houses, 
and  its  peculiar  air  of  desolation. 

The  house  for  which  we  were  bound  was  situated 
at  no  great  distance  from  Kensington  Park,  and  tell- 
ing the  cabman  to  wait,  Harley  and  I  walked  up  a 
narrow,  paved  path,  mounted  a  flight  of  steps,  and 
rang  the  bell  beside  a  somewhat  time-worn  door,  above 
which  was  an  old-fashioned  fanlight  dimly  illumin- 
ated from  within. 

A  considerable  interval  elapsed  before  the  door 
was  opened  by  a  marvellously  untidy  servant  girl  who 
had  apparently  been  interrupted  in  the  act  of  black- 
leading  her  face.  Partly  opening  the  door,  she  stared 
at  us  agape,  pushing  back  wisps  of  hair  from  her 
eyes  and  with  every  movement  daubing  more  of  some 
mysterious  black  substance  upon  her  countenance. 

"Is  Mr.  Bampton  in?"  asked  Harley. 

"Yus,  just  come  in.     I'm  cookin'  his  supper." 

uTell  him  that  two  friends  of  his  have  called  on 
rather  important  business." 

"All  right,"  said  the  black-faced  one.  "What  name 
is  it?" 

"No  name.     Just  say  two  friends  of  his." 

Treating  us  to  a  long,  vacant  stare  and  leaving  us 
standing  on  the  step,  the  maid  (in  whose  hand  I  per- 
ceived a  greasy  fork)  shuffled  along  the  passage  and 
began  to  mount  the  stairs.  An  unmistakable  odour 
of  frying  sausages  now  reached  my  nostrils.  Harley 


THE  WHITE  HAT  233 

glanced  at  me  quizzically,  but  said  nothing  until  the 
Cinderella  came  stumbling  downstairs  again.  With- 
out returning  to  where  we  stood : 

"Go  up,"  she  directed.  "Second  floor,  front. 
Shut  the  door,  one  of  yer." 

She  disappeared  into  gloomy  depths  below  as  Harley 
and  I,  closing  the  door  behind  us,  proceeded  to  avail 
ourselves  of  the  invitation.  There  was  very  little 
light  on  the  staircase,  but  we  managed  to  find  our  way 
to  a  poorly  furnished  bed-sitting-room  where  a  small 
table  was  spread  for  a  meal.  Beside  the  table,  in  a 
chintz-covered  arm-chair,  a  thick-set  young  man  was 
seated  smoking  a  cigarette  and  having  a  copy  of  the 
Daily  Telegraph  upon  his  knees. 

He  was  a  very  typical  lower  middle-class,  nothing- 
in-particular  young  man,  but  there  was  a  certain 
truculence  indicated  by  his  square  jaw,  and  that  sort 
of  self-possession  which  sometimes  accompanies 
physical  strength  was  evidenced  in  his  manner  as, 
tossing  the  paper  aside,  he  stood  up. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Bampton,"  said  Harley 
genially.  "I  take  it" — pointing  to  the  newspaper-— 
"that  you  are  looking  for  a  new  job?" 

Bampton  stared,  a  suspicion  of  anger  in  his  eyes, 
then,  meeting  the  amused  glance  of  my  friend,  he 
broke  into  a  smile  very  pleasing  and  humorous.  He 
was  a  fresh-coloured  young  fellow  with  hair  inclined 
to  redness,  and  smiling  he  looked  very  boyish  indeed. 

"I  have  no  idea  who  you  are,"  he  said,  speaking 
with  a  faint  north-country  accent,  "but  you  evidently 
know  who  I  am  and  what  has  happened  to  me." 


234  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"Got  the  boot?"  asked  Harley  confidentially. 

Bampton,  tossing  the  end  of  his  cigarette  into  the 
grate,  nodded  grimly. 

"You  haven't  told  me  your  name,"  he  said,  but 
I  think  I  can  tell  you  your  business."  He  ceased 
smiling.  "Now  look  here,  I  don't  want  any  more 
publicity.  If  you  think  you  are  going  to  make  a  funny 
newspaper  story  out  of  me  change  your  mind  as  quick 
as  you  like.  I'll  never  get  another  job  in  London  as 
it  is.  If  you  drag  me  any  further  into  the  limelight 
I'll  never  get  another  job  in  England." 

"My  dear  fellow,"   replied  Harley  soothingly,   at 
the  same  time  extending  his  cigarette-case,  "you  mis- 
apprehend the  object  of  my  call.    I  am  not  a  reporter." 
"What!"  said  Bampton,  pausing  in  the  act  of  tak- 
ing a  cigarette,  "then  what  the  devil  are  you?" 

"My  name  is  Paul  Harley,  and  I  am  a  criminal 
investigator." 

He  spoke  the  words  deliberately,  having  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  other's  face;  but  although  Bampton 
was  palpably  startled  there  was  no  trace  of  fear  in  his 
straightforward  glance.  He  took  a  cigarette  from 

the  case,  and: 

"Thanks,  Mr.  Harley,"  he  said.  '1  cannot  imagine 
what  business  has  brought  you  here." 

"I  have  come  to  ask  you  two  questions,"  was  the 
reply  "Number  one :  Who  paid  you  to  smash  Major 
Ragstaff's  white  hat?  Number  two:  How  much  did 

he  pay  you?" 

To  these  questions  I  listened  in  amazement,  and 
my  amazement  was  evidently  shared  by  Bampton. 


THE  WHITE  HAT  235 

had  been  in  the  act  of  lighting  his  cigarette,  but  he 
allowed  the  match  to  burn  down  nearly  to  his  fingers 
and  then  dropped  it  with  a  muttered  exclamation  in 
the  fire.  Finally : 

"I  don't  know  how  you  found  out,"  he  said,  "but 
you  evidently  know  the  truth.     Provided  you  assure 
me  that  you  are  not  out  to  make  a  silly-season  news- 
paper story,  I'll  tell  you  all  I  know." 
Harley  laid  his  card  on  the  table,  and: 
"Unless  the  ends  of  justice  demand  it,"  he  said, 
"I  give  you  my  word  that  anything  you  care  to  say 
will  go  no  further.     You  may  speak  freely  before  my 
friend,  Mr.  Knox.     Simply  tell  me  in  as  few  words 
as   possible   what   led   you    to    court    arrest   in    that 


manner." 


"Right,"  replied  Bampton,  "I  will."  He  half 
closed  his  eyes,  reflectively.  "I  was  having  tea  in 
the  Lyons'  cafe,  to  which  I  always  go,  last  Monday 
afternoon  about  four  o'clock,  when  a  man  sat  down 
facing  me  and  got  into  conversation." 

"Describe  him!" 

"He  was  a  man  rather  above  medium  height.  I 
should  say  about  my  own  build;  dark,  going  gray. 
He  had  a  neat  moustache  and  a  short  beard,  and  the 
look  of  a  man  who  had  travelled  a  lot.  His  skin  was 
very  tanned,  almost  as  deeply  as  yours,  Mr.  Harley. 
Not  at  all  the  sort  of  chap  that  goes  in  there  as  a  rule. 
After  a  while  he  made  an  extraordinary  proposal.  At 
first  I  thought  he  was  joking,  then  when  I  grasped 
the  idea  that  he  was  serious  I  concluded  he  was  mad. 
He  asked  me  how  much  a  year  I  earned,  and  I  told 


236  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

him  Peters  and  Peters  paid  me  £150.  He  said:  Til 
give  you  a  year's  salary  to  knock  a  man's  hat  off !'  ' 

As  Bampton  spoke  the  words  he  glanced  at  us  with 
twinkling  eyes,  but  although  for  my  own  part  I  was 
merely  amused,  Harley's  expression  had  grown  very 
stern. 

"Of  course,  I  laughed,"  continued  Bampton,  "but 
when  the  man  drew  out  a  fat  wallet  and  counted  ten 
five-pound  notes  on  the  table  I  began  to  think  seriously 
about  his  proposal.  Even  supposing  he  was  cracked, 
it  was  absolutely  money  for  nothing. 

'  'Of  course,'  he  said,  'you'll  lose  your  job  and  you 
may  be  arrested,  but  you'll  say  that  you  had  been  out 
with  a  few  friends  and  were  a  little  excited,  also  that 
you  never  could  stand  white  hats.  Stick  to  that  story 
and  the  balance  of  a  hundred  pounds  will  reach  you 
on  the  following  morning.' 

"I  asked  him  for  further  particulars,  and  I  asked 
him  why  he  had  picked  me  for.  the  job.  He  replied 
that  he  had  been  looking  for  some  time  for  the  right 
man;  a  man  who  was  strong  enough  physically  to 
accomplish  the  thing,  and  someone" — Bampton's  eyes 
twinkled  again — "with  a  dash  of  the  devil  in  him,  but 
at  the  same  time  a  man  who  could  be  relied  upon  to 
stick  to  his  guns  and  not  to  give  the  game  away. 

"You  asked  me  to  be  brief,  and  I'll  try  to  be.  The 
man  in  the  white  hat  was  described  to  me,  and  the 
exact  time  and  place  of  the  meeting.  I  just  had  to 
grab  his  white  hat,  smash  it,  and  face  the  music.  I 
agreed.  I  don't  deny  that  I  had  a  couple  of  stiff 
drinks  before  I  set  out,  but  the  memory  of  that  fifty 


THE  WHITE  HAT  237 

pounds  locked  up  here  in  my  room  and  the  further 
hundred  promised,  bucked  me  up  wonderfully.  It 
was  impossible  to  mistake  my  man;  I  could  see  him 
coming  toward  me  as  I  waited  just  outside  a  sort  of 
little  restaurant  called  the  Cafe  Dame.  As  arranged, 
I  bumped  into  him,  grabbed  his  hat  and  jumped  on  it." 

He  paused,  raising  his  hand  to  his  head  reminis- 
cently. 

uMy  man  was  a  bit  of  a  scrapper,"  he  continued, 
"and  he  played  hell.  I've  never  heard  such  language 
in  my  life,  and  the  way  he  laid  about  me  with  his  cane 
is  something  I  am  not  likely  to  forget  in  a  hurry.  A 
crowd  gathered,  naturally,  and  (also  naturally)  I  was 
'pinched.'  That  didn't  matter  much.  I  got  off 
lightly;  and  although  I've  been  dismissed  by  Peters 
and  Peters,  twenty  crisp  fivers  are  locked  in  my  trunk 
there,  with  the  ten  which  I  received  in  the  City." 

Harley  checked  him,  and: 

"May  I  see  the  envelope  in  which  they  arrived?" 
he  asked. 

"Sorry,"  replied  Bampton,  "but  I  burned  it.  I 
thought  it  was  playing  the  game  to  do  so.  It  wouldn't 
have  helped  you  much,  though,"  he  added;  "It  was 
an  ordinary  common  envelope,  posted  in  the  City, 
address  typewritten,  and  not  a  line  enclosed." 

"Registered?" 

"No." 

Bampton  stood  looking  at  us  with  a  curious  ex- 
pression on  his  face,  and  suddenly: 

"There's  one  point,"  he  said,  "on  which  my  con- 
science isn't  easy.  You  know  about  that  poor  devil 


238  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

who  fell  out  of  a  window?  Well,  it  would  never  have 
happened  if  I  hadn't  kicked  up  a  row  in  the  street. 
There's  no  doubt  he  was  leaning  out  to  see  what  the 
disturbance  was  about  when  the  accident  occurred." 

uDid  you  actually  see  him  fall?"  asked  Harley. 

uNo.  He  fell  from  a  window  several  yards  behind 
me  in  the  side  street,  but  I  heard  him  cry  out,  and  as 
I  was  lugged  off  by  the  police  I  heard  the  bell  of  the 
ambulance  which  came  to  fetch  him." 

He  paused  again  and  stood  rubbing  his  head  rue- 
fully. 

"H'm,"  said  Harley;  "was  there  anything  partic- 
ularly remarkable  about  this  man  in  the  Lyons'  cafe?" 

Bampton  reflected  silently  for  some  moments,  and 
then: 

"Nothing  much,"  he  confessed.  "He  was  evidently 
a  gentleman,  wore  a  blue  top-coat,  a  dark  tweed  suit, 
and  what  looked  like  a  regimental  tie,  but  I  didn't 
see  much  of  the  colours.  He  was  very  tanned,  as  I 
have  said,  even  to  the  backs  of  his  hands — and  oh, 
yes!  there  was  one  point:  He  had  a  gold-covered 
tooth." 

"Which  tooth  ?" 

"I  can't  remember,  except  that  it  was  on  the  left 
side,  and  I  always  noticed  it  when  he  smiled." 

"Did  he  wear  any  ring  or  pin  which  you  would 
recognize?" 

"No." 

"Had  he  any  oddity  of  speech  or  voice?" 

"No.  Just  a  heavy,  drawling  manner.  He  spoke 
like  thousands  of  other  cultured  Englishmen.  But 


THE  WHITE  HAT  239 

wait  a  minute — yes!  There  was  one  other  point. 
Now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  his  eyes  very  slightly 
slanted  upward. " 

Harley  stared. 

"Like  a  Chinaman's?" 

"Oh,  nothing  so  marked  as  that.  But  the  same 
sort  of  formation." 

Harley  nodded  briskly  and  buttoned  up  his  over- 
coat. 

"Thanks,  Mr.  Bampton,"  he  said;  "we  will  detain 
you  no  longer!" 

As  we  descended  the  stairs,  where  the  smell  of 
frying  sausages  had  given  place  to  that  of  something 
burning — probably  the  sausages: 

"I  was  half  inclined  to  think  that  Major  Ragstaff's 
ideas  were  traceable  to  a  former  touch  of  the  sun," 
said  Harley.  "I  begin  to  believe  that  he  has  put  us 
on  the  track  of  a  highly  unusual  crime.  I  am  sorry  to 
delay  dinner,  Knox,  but  I  propose  to  call  at  the  Cafe 
Dame." 


Ill 

A  CRIMINAL  GENIUS 

ON  ENTERING  the  doorway  of  the  Cafe 
Dame  we  found  ourselves  in  a  narrow  pass- 
age. In  front  of  us  was  a  carpeted  stair, 
and  to  the  right  a  glass-panelled  door  communicating 
with  a  discreetly  lighted  little  dining  room  which 
seemed  to  be  well  patronized.  Opening  the  door 
Harley  beckoned  to  a  waiter,  and : 

"I  wish  to  see  the  proprietor,"  he  said. 

"Mr.  Meyer  is  engaged  at  the  moment,  sir,"  was 
the  reply. 

"Where  is  he?" 

"In  his  office  upstairs,  sir.  He  will  be  down  in  a 
moment." 

The  waiter  hurried  away,  and  Harley  stood  glanc- 
ing up  the  stairs  as  if  in  doubt  what  to  do. 

"I  cannot  imagine  how  such  a  place  can  pay,"  he 
muttered.  "The  rent  must  be  enormous  in  this 
district." 

But  even  before  he  ceased  speaking  I  became  aware 
of  an  excited  conversation  which  was  taking  place  in 
some  apartment  above. 

"It's  scandalous!"  I  heard,  in  a  woman's  shrill 
voice.  "You  have  no  right  to  keep  it!  It's  not  your 

240 


THE  WHITE  HAT  241 

property,  and  I'm  here  to  demand  that  you  give  it  up." 

A  man's  voice  replied  in  voluble  broken  English, 
but  I  could  only  distinguish  a  word  here  and  there. 
I  saw  that  Harley  was  interested,  for  catching  my 
questioning  glance,  he  raised  his  finger  to  his  lips 
enjoining  me  to  be  silent. 

"Oh,  that's  the  game,  is  it?"  continued  the  female 
voice.  "Of  course  you  know  it's  blackmail?" 

A  flow  of  unintelligible  words  answered  this  speech, 
then: 

"I  shall  come  back  with  someone,"  cried  the  invis- 
ible woman,  "who  will  make  you  give  it  up !" 

"Knox,"  whispered  Harley  in  my  ear,  "when  that 
woman  comes  down,  follow  her !  I'm  afraid  you  will 
bungle  the  business,  and  I  would  not  ask  you  to  attempt 
it  if  big  things  were  not  at  stake.  Return  here;  I 
shall  wait." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  his  sudden  request  had  posi- 
tively astounded  me,  but  ere  I  had  time  for  any  reply 
a  door  suddenly  banged  open  above  and  a  respectable- 
looking  woman,  who  might  have  been  some  kind  of 
upper  servant,  came  quickly  down  the  stairs.  An  ex- 
pression of  intense  indignation  rested  upon  her  face, 
and  without  seeming  to  notice  our  presence  she 
brushed  past  us  and  went  out  into  the  street. 

"Off  you  go,  Knox!"  said  Harley. 

Seeing  myself  committed  to  an  unpleasant  business, 
I  slipped  out  of  the  doorway  and  detected  the  woman 
five  or  six  yards  away  hurrying  in  the  direction  of 
Piccadilly.  I  had  no  difficulty  in  following  her,  for 
she  was  evidently  unsuspicious  of  my  presence,  and 


242  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

when  presently  she  mounted  a  westward-bound  'bus  I 
did  likewise,  but  while  she  got  inside  I  went  on  top, 
and  occupied  a  seat  on  the  near  side  whence  I  could 
observe  anyone  leaving  the  vehicle. 

If  I  had  not  known  Paul  Harley  so  well  I  should 
have  counted  the  whole  business  a  ridiculous  farce, 
but  recognizing  that  something  underlay  these  seem- 
ingly trivial  and  disconnected  episodes,  I  lighted  a 
cigarette  and  resigned  myself  to  circumstance. 

At  Hyde  Park  Corner  I  saw  the  woman  descending, 
and  when  presently  she  walked  up  Hamilton  Place  I 
was  not  far  behind  her.  At  the  door  of  an  imposing 
mansion  she  stopped,  and  in  response  to  a  ring  of  the 
bell  the  door  was  opened  by  a  footman,  and  the 
woman  hurried  in.  Evidently  she  was  an  inmate  of 
the  establishment;  and  conceiving  that  my  duty  was 
done  when  I  had  noted  the  number  of  the  house,  I 
retraced  my  steps  to  the  corner;  and,  hailing  a  taxicab, 
returned  to  the  Cafe  Dame. 

On  inquiring  of  the  same  waiter  whom  Harley  had 
accosted  whether  my  friend  was  there : 

"I  think  a  gentleman  is  upstairs  with  Mr.  Meyer," 
said  the  man. 

"In  his  office?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

Thereupon  I  mounted  the  stairs  and  before  a  half- 
open  door  paused.  Harley's  voice  was  audible  within, 
and  therefore  I  knocked  and  entered. 

I  discovered  Harley  standing  by  an  American  desk. 
Beside  him  in  a  revolving  chair  which,  with  the  desk, 
constituted  the  principal  furniture  of  a  tiny  office,  sat 


THE  WHITE  HAT  243 

a  man  in  a  dress-suit  which  had  palpably  not  been 
made  for  him.  He  had  a  sullen  and  suspiciously 
Teutonic  cast  of  countenance,  and  he  was  engaged  in 
a  voluble  but  hardly  intelligible  speech  as  I  entered. 

uHa,  Knox!"  said  Harley,  glancing  over  his 
shoulder,  "did  you  manage?" 

"Yes,"  I  replied. 

Harley  nodded  shortly  and  turned  again  to  the  man 
in  the  chair. 

"I  am  sorry  to  give  you  so  much  trouble,  Mr. 
Meyer,"  he  said,  "but  I  should  like  my  friend  here  to 
see  the  room  above." 

At  this  moment  my  attention  was  attracted  by  a 
singular  object  which  lay  upon  the  desk  amongst  a 
litter  of  bills  and  accounts.  This  was  a  piece  of  rusty 
iron  bar  somewhat  less  than  three  feet  in  length,  and 
which  once  had  been  painted  green. 

"You  are  looking  at  this  tragic  fragment,  Knox," 
said  Harley,  taking  up  the  bar.  "Of  course" — he 
shrugged  his  shoulders — "it  explains  the  whole  un- 
fortunate occurrence.  You  see  there  was  a  flaw  in 
the  metal  at  this  end,  here" — he  indicated  the  spot — 
"and  the  other  end  had  evidently  worn  loose  in  its 
socket." 

"But  I  don't  understand." 

"It  will  all  be  made  clear  at  the  inquest,  no  doubt. 
A  most  unfortunate  thing  for  you,  Mr.  Meyer." 

"Most  unfortunate,"  declared  the  proprietor  of  the 
restaurant,  extending  his  thick  hands  pathetically. 
"Most  ruinous  to  my  business." 

"We  will  go  upstairs  now,"   said  Harley.      "You 


244  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

will  kindly  lead  the  way,  Mr.  Meyer,  and  the  whole 
thing  will  be  quite  clear  to  you,  Knox." 

As  the  proprietor  walked  out  of  the  office  and 
upstairs  to  the  second  floor  Harley  whispered  in  my 
ear: 

"Where  did  she  go?" 

uNo. Hamilton  Place,"  I  replied  in  an  under- 
tone. 

"Good  God!"  muttered  my  friend,  and  clutched 
my  arm  so  tightly  that  I  winced.  "Good  God!  The 
master  touch,  Knox!  This  crime  was  the  work  of  a 
genius — of  a  genius  with  slightly,  very  slightly, 
oblique  eyes." 

Opening  a  door  on  the  second  landing,  Mr.  Meyer 
admitted  us  to  a  small  supper-room.  Its  furniture 
consisted  of  a  round  dining  table,  several  chairs,  a 
couch,  and  very  little  else.  I  observed,  however,  that 
the  furniture,  carpet,  and  a  few  other  appointments 
were  of  a  character  much  more  elegant  than  those  of 
the  public  room  below.  A  window  which  overlooked 
the  street  was  open,  so  that  the  plush  curtains  which 
had  been  drawn  aside  moved  slightly  to  and  fro  in 
the  draught. 

"The  window  of  the  tragedy,  Knox,"  explained 
Harley. 

He  crossed  the  room. 

"If  you  will  stand  here  beside  me  you  will  see  the  gap 
in  the  railing  caused  by  the  breaking  away  of  the  frag- 
ment which  now  lies  on  Mr.  Meyer's  desk.  Some  few 
yards  to  the  left  in  the  street  below  is  where  the  assault 
took  place,  of  which  we  have  heard,  and  the  unfort- 


THE  WHITE  HAT  245 

unate  Mr.  De  Lana,  who  was  dining  here  alone — an 
eccentric  custom  of  his — naturally  ran  to  the  window 
upon  hearing  the  disturbance  and  leaned  out,  support- 
ing his  weight  upon  the  railing.  The  rail  collapsed, 
and — we  know  the  rest." 

"It  will  ruin  me,"  groaned  Meyer;  "it  will  give  bad 
repute  to  my  establishment." 

"I  fear  it  will,"  agreed  Harley  sympathetically, 
"unless  we  can  manage  to  clear  up  one  or  two  little 
difficulties  which  I  have  observed.  For  instance" — 
he  tapped  the  proprietor  on  the  shoulder  confidentially 
— "have  you  any  idea,  any  hazy  idea,  of  the  identity 
of  the  woman  who  was  dining  here  with  Mr.  De  Lana 
on  Wednesday  night?" 

The  effect  of  this  simple  inquiry  upon  the  proprietor 
was  phenomenal.  His  fat  yellow  face  assumed  a  sort 
of  leaden  hue,  and  his  already  prominent  eyes  pro- 
truded abnormally.  He  licked  his  lips. 

"I  tell  you — already  I  tell  you,"  he  muttered,  "that 
Mr.  De  Lana  he  engage  this  room  every  Wednesday 
and  sometimes  also  Friday,  and  dine  here  by  him- 
self." 

"And  I  tell  you,"  said  Harley  sweetly,  "that  you 
are  an  inspired  liar.  You  smuggled  her  out  by  the 
side  entrance  after  the  accident." 

"The  side  entrance?"  muttered  Meyer.  "The  side 
entrance?" 

"Exactly;  the  side  entrance.  There  is  something 
else  which  I  must  ask  you  to  tell  me.  Who  had 
engaged  this  room  on  Tuesday  night,  the  night  before 
the  accident?" 


246  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

The  proprietor's  expression  remained  uncompre- 
hending, and: 

"A  gentleman,"  he  said.      "I  never  see  him  before." 

"Another  solitary  diner?"  suggested  Harley. 

"Yes,  he  is  alone  all  the  evening  waiting  for  a  friend 
who  does  not  arrive." 

"Ah,"  mused  Harley — "alone  all  the  evening,  was 
he?  And  his  friend  disappointed  him.  May  I  sug- 
gest that  he  was  a  dark  man?  Gray  at  the  temples, 
having  a  dark  beard  and  moustache,  and  a  very  tanned 
face?  His  eyes  slanted  slightly  upward?" 

"Yes!  yes!"  cried  Meyer,  and  his  astonishment 
was  patently  unfeigned.  "It  is  a  friend  of  yours?" 

"A  friend  of  mine,  yes,"  said  Harley  absently,  but 
his  expression  was  very  grim.  "What  time  did  he 
finally  leave?" 

"He  waited  until  after  eleven  o'clock.  The  dinner 
is  spoilt.  He  pays,  but  does  not  complain." 

"No,"  said  Harley  musingly,  "he  had  nothing  to 
complain  about.  One  more  question,  my  friend. 
When  the  lady  escaped  hurriedly  on  Wednesday 
night,  what  was  it  that  she  left  behind  and  what 
price  are  you  trying  to  extort  from  her  for  re- 
turning it?" 

At  that  the  man  collapsed  entirely. 

"Ah,  Gott!"  he  cried,  and  raised  his  hand  to  his 
clammy  forehead.  "You  will  ruin  me.  I  am  a 
ruined  man.  I  don't  try  to  extort  anything.  I  run 
an  honest  business " 

"And  one  of  the  most  profitable  in  the  world," 
added  Harley,  "since  the  days  of  Thais  to  our  own. 


THE  WHITE  HAT  247 

Even  at  Bond  Street  rentals  I  assume  that  a  house  of 
assignation  is  a  golden  enterprise." 

"Ah !"  groaned  Meyer,  "I  am  ruined,  so  what  does 
it  matter?  I  tell  you  everything.  I  know  Mr.  De 
Lana  who  engages  my  room  regularly,  but  I  don't 
know  who  the  lady  is  who  meets  him  here.  No !  I 
swear  it!  But  always  it  is  the  same  lady.  When  he 
falls  I  am  downstairs  in  my  office,  and  I  hear  him  cry 
out.  The  lady  comes  running  from  the  room  and  begs 
of  me  to  get  her  away  without  being  seen  and  to  keep 
all  mention  of  her  out  of  the  matter." 

"What  did  she  pay  you?"  asked  Harley. 

"Pay  me?"  muttered  Meyer,  pulled  up  thus  shortly 
in  the  midst  of  his  statement. 

"Pay  you.     Exactly.     Don't  argue;  answer." 

The  man  delivered  himself  of  a  guttural,  choking 
sound,  and  finally: 

"She  promised  one  hundred  pounds,"  he  confessed 
hoarsely. 

"But  you  surely  did  not  accept  a  mere  promise? 
Out  with  it.  What  did  she  give  you?" 

"A  ring,"  came  the  confession  at  last. 

"A  ring.  I  see.  I  will  take  it  with  me  if  you 
don't  mind.  And  now,  finally,  what  was  it  that  she 
left  behind?" 

"Ah,  Gott!"  moaned  the  man,  dropping  into  a 
chair  and  resting  his  arms  upon  the  table.  "It  is  all 
a  great  panic,  you  see.  I  hurry  her  out  by  the  back 
stair  from  this  landing  and  she  forgets  her  bag." 

"Her  bag?     Good." 

"Then  I  clear  away  the  remains  of  dinner  so  I  can 


248  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

say  Mr.  De  Lana  is  dining  alone.     It  is  as  much  my 
interest  as  the  lady's." 

"Of  course!  I  quite  understand.  I  will  trouble 
you  no  more,  Mr.  Meyer,  except  to  step  into  your 
office  and  to  relieve  you  of  that  incriminating  evidence, 
the  lady's  bag  and  her  ring." 


D 


IV 

THE  SLANTING  EYES 

O  YOU  understand,  Knox?"  said  Harley  as 
the  cab  bore  us  toward  Hamilton  Place.     "Do 
you  grasp  the  details  of  this  cunning  scheme?" 
On  the  contrary,"  I  replied,  "I  am  hopelessly  at 


sea." 


Nevertheless,  I  had  forgotten  that  I  was  hungry  in 
the  excitement  which  now  claimed  me.  For  although 
the  thread  upon  which  these  seemingly  disconnected 
things  hung  was  invisible  to  me,  I  recognized  that 
Bampton,  the  city  clerk,  the  bearded  stranger  who 
had  made  so  singular  a  proposition  to  him,  the  white- 
hatted  major,  the  dead  stockbroker,  and  the  mys- 
terious woman  whose  presence  in  the  case  the  clear 
sight  of  Harley  had  promptly  detected,  all  were  linked 
together  by  some  subtle  chain.  I  was  convinced, 
too,  that  my  friend  held  at  least  one  end  of  that  chain 
in  his  grip. 

"In  order  to  prepare  your  mind  for  the  interview 
which  I  hope  to  obtain  this  evening,"  continued  Harley, 
"let  me  enlighten  you  upon  one  or  two  points  which 
may  seem  obscure.  In  the  first  place  you  recognize 
that  anyone  leaning  out  of  the  window  on  the  second 
floor  would  almost  automatically  rest  his  weight  upon 

249 


250  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

the  iron  bar  which  was  placed  there  for  that  very 
purpose,  since  the  ledge  is  unusually  low?" 

"Quite,"  I  replied,  "and  it  also  follows  that  if  the 
bar  gave  way  anyone  thus  leaning  on  it  would  be 
pitched  into  the  street." 

"Your  reasoning  is  correct." 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  I,  "how  could  such  an 
accident  have  been  foreseen?" 

"You  speak  of  an  accident.  This  was  no  acci- 
dent! One  end  of  the  bar  had  been  filed  completely 
through,  although  the  file  marks  had  been  carefully 
concealed  with  rust  and  dirt;  and  the  other  end  had 
been  wrenched  out  from  its  socket  and  then  replaced 
in  such  a  way  that  anyone  leaning  upon  the  bar  could 
not  fail  to  be  precipitated  into  the  street!" 

"Good  heavens!     Then  you  mean " 

"I  mean,  Knox,  that  the  man  who  occupied  the 
supper  room  on  the  night  before  the  tragedy — the  dark 
man,  tanned  and  bearded,  with  slightly  oblique  eyes — 
spent  his  time  in  filing  through  that  bar — in  short,  in 
preparing  a  death  trap !" 

I  was  almost  dumbfounded. 

"But,  Harley,"  I  said,  "assuming  that  He  knew  his 
victim  would  be  the  next  occupant  of  the  room,  how 
could  he  know ?" 

I  stopped.  Suddenly,  as  if  a  curtain  had  been 
raised,  the  details  of  what  I  now  perceived  to  be  a 
fiendishly  cunning  murder  were  revealed  to  me. 

"According  to  his  own  account,  Knox,"  resumed 
Harley,  "Major  Ragstaff  regularly  passed  along  that 
street  with  military  punctuality  at  the  same  hour  every 


THE  WHITE  HAT  251 

night.  You  may  take  it  for  granted  that  the  murderer 
was -well  aware  of  this.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  hap- 
pen to  know  that  he  was.  We  must  also  take  it  for 
granted  that  the  murderer  knew  of  these  little  dinners 
for  two  which  took  place  in  the  private  room  above 
the  Cafe  Dame  every  Wednesday — and  sometimes  on 
Friday.  Around  the  figure  of  the  methodical  major 
— with  his  conspicuous  white  hat  as  a  sort  of  focus — 
was  built  up  one  of  the  most  ingenious  schemes  of 
murder  with  which  I  have  ever  come  in  contact.  The 
victim  literally  killed  himself." 

"But,  Harley,  the  victim  might  have  ignored  the 
disturbance." 

"That  is  where  I  first  detected  the  touch  of  genius, 
Knox.  He  recognized  the  voice  of  one  of  the  com- 
batants— or  his  companion  did.  Here  we  are." 

The  cab  drew  up  before  the  house  in  Hamilton 
Place.  We  alighted,  and  Harley  pressed  the  bell. 
The  same  footman  whom  I  had  seen  admit  the 
woman  opened  the  door. 

"Is  Lady  Ireton  at  home?"  asked  Harley. 

As  he  uttered  the  name  I  literally  held  my  breath. 
We  had  come  to  the  house  of  Major  Ragstaff's 
daughter,  the  Marchioness  of  Ireton,  one  of  society's 
most  celebrated  and  beautiful  hostesses! — the  wife  of 
a  peer  famed  alike  as  sportsman,  soldier,  and  scholar. 

"I  believe  she  is  dining  at  home,  sir,"  said  the  man. 
"Shall  I  inquire?" 

"Be  good  enough  to  do  so,"  replied  Harley,  and 
gave  him  a  card.  "Inform  her  that  I  wish  to  return 
to  her  a  handbag  which  she  lost  a  few  days  ago." 


252  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

The  man  ushered  us  into  an  anteroom  opening  off 
the  lofty  and  rather  gloomy  hall,  and  as  the  door 
closed : 

"Harley,"  I  said  in  a  stage  whisper,  "am  I  to 
believe " 

"Can  you  doubt  it?"  returned  Harley  with  a  grim 
smile. 

A  few  moments  later  we  were  shown  into  a  charm- 
ingly intimate  little  boudoir  in  which  Lady  Ireton  was 
waiting  to  receive  us.  She  was  a  strikingly  handsome 
brunette,  but  to-night  her  face,  which  normally,  I 
think,  possessed  rich  colouring,  was  almost  pallid,  and 
there  was  a  hunted  look  in  her  dark  eyes  which  made 
me  wish  to  be  anywhere  rather  than  where  I  found 
myself.  Without  preamble  she  rose  and  addressed 
Harley: 

"I  fail  to  understand  your  message,  sir,"  she  said, 
and  I  admired  the  imperious  courage  with  which  she 
faced  him.  "You  say  you  have  recovered  a  handbag 
which  I  had  lost?" 

Harley  bowed,  and  from  the  pocket  of  his  great- 
coat took  out  a  silken-tasselled  bag. 

"The  one  which  you  left  in  the  Cafe  Dame,  Lady 
Ireton,"  he  replied.  "Here  also  I  have" — from  an- 
other pocket  he  drew  out  a  diamond  ring — "some- 
thing which  was  extorted  from  you  by  the  fellow 
Meyer." 

Without  touching  her  recovered  property,  Lady 
Ireton  sank  slowly  down  into  the  chair  from  which 
she  had  arisen,  her  gaze  fixed  as  if  hypnotically  upon 
the  speaker. 


THE  WHITE  HAT  253 

"My  friend,  Mr.  Knox,  is  aware  of  all  the  cir- 
cumstances," continued  the  latter,  ubut  he  is  as  anxious 
as  I  am  to  terminate  this  painful  interview.  I  sur- 
mise that  what  occurred  on  Wednesday  night  was 
this — (correct  me  if  I  am  wrong)  :  While  dining  with 
Mr.  De  Lana  you  heard  sounds  of  altercation  in  the 
street  below.  May  I  suggest  that  you  recognized 
one  of  the  voices?" 

Lady  Ireton,  still  staring  straight  before  her  at 
Harley,  inclined  her  head  in  assent. 

"I  heard  my  father's  voice,"  she  said  hoarsely. 

"Quite  so,"  he  continued.  "I  am  aware  that  Major 
Ragstaff  is  your  father."  He  turned  to  me:  "Do 
you  recognize  the  touch  of  genius  at  last?"  Then, 
again  addressing  Lady  Ireton:  "You  naturally  sug- 
gested to  your  companion  that  he  should  look  out  of 
the  window  in  order  to  learn  what  was  taking  place. 
The  next  thing  you  knew  was  that  he  had  fallen  into 
the  street  below?" 

Lady  Ireton  shuddered  and  raised  her  hands  to  her 
face. 

"It  is  retribution,"  she  whispered.  "I  have  brought 
this  ruin  upon  myself.  But  he  does  not  deserve " 

Her  voice  faded  into  silence,  and : 

"You  refer  to  your  husband,  Lord  Ireton?"  said 
Harley. 

Lady  Ireton  nodded,  and  again  recovering  power 
of  speech: 

"It  was  to  have  been  our  last  meeting,"  she  said, 
looking  up  at  Harley. 

She  shuddered,   and  her  eyes  blazed  into  sudden 


254  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

fierceness.  Then,  clenching  her  ha;  Js,  she  looked 
aside. 

"Oh,  God,  the  shame  of  this  hour !"  she  whispered. 

And  I  would  have  given  much  to  have  been  spared 
the  spectacle  of  this  proud,  erring  woman's  humilia- 
tion. But  Paul  Harley  was  scientifically  remorseless. 
I  could  detect  no  pity  in  his  glance. 

"I  would  give  my  life  willingly  to  spare  my  husband 
the  knowledge  of  what  has  been,"  said  Lady  Ireton  in 
a  low,  monotonous  voice.  "Three  times  I  sent  my 
maid  to  Meyer  to  recover  my  bag,  but  he  demanded  a 
price  which  even  /  could  not  pay.  Now  it  is  all  dis- 
covered, and  Harry  will  know." 

"That,  I  fear,  is  unavoidable,  Lady  Ireton/'  de- 
clared Harley.  "May  I  ask  where  Lord  Ireton  is  at 
present?" 

"He  is  in  Africa  after  big  game." 

"H'm,"  said  Harley,  "in  Africa,  and  after  big  game? 
I  can  offer  you  one  consolation,  Lady  Ireton.  In  his 
own  interests  Meyer  will  stick  to  his  first  assertion 
that  Mr.  De  Lana  was  dining  alone." 

A  strange,  horribly  pathetic  look  came  into  the 
woman's  haunted  eyes. 

"You — you — are  not  acting  for ?"  she  began. 

"I  am  acting  for  no  one,"  replied  Harley  tersely. 
"Upon  my  friend's  discretion  you  may  rely  as  upon 
my  own." 

"Then  why  should  he  ever  know?"  she  whispered. 

"Why,  indeed,"  murmured  Harley,  "since  he  is  in 
Africa?" 

As  we  descended  the  stair  to  the  hall  my  friend 


THE  WHITE  HAT  255 

paused  and  pointed  to  a  life-sized  oil  painting  by 
London's  most  fashionable  portrait  painter.  It  was 
that  of  a  man  in  the  uniform  of  a  Guards  officer,  a 
dark  man,  slightly  gray  at  the  temples,  his  face  very 
tanned  as  if  by  exposure  to  the  sun. 

"Having  had  no  occasion  for  disguise  when  the 
portrait  was  painted,"  said  Harley,  "Lord  Ireton  ap- 
pears here  without  the  beard;  and  as  he  is  not  repre- 
sented smiling  one  cannot  see  the  gold  tooth.  But 
the  painter,  if  anything,  has  accentuated  the  slanting 
eyes.  You  see,  the  fourth  marquis  —  the  present  Lord 
Ireton's  father  —  married  one  of  the  world-famous 
Yen  Sun  girls,  daughters  of  the  mandarin  of  that  name 
by  an  Irish  wife.  Hence,  the  eyes.  And  hence  -  " 

"But,  Harley  —  it  was  murder!" 

"Not  within  the  meaning  of  the  law,  Knox.  It  was 
a  recrudescence  of  Chinese  humour!  Lord  Ireton  is 
officially  in  Africa  (and  he  went  actually  after  'big 
game').  The  counsel  is  not  born  who  could  secure 
a  conviction.  We  are  somewhat  late,  but  shall  there- 
fore have  less  difficulty  in  finding  a  table  at  Prince's." 


TCHERIAPIN 


E 


TCHERIAPIN 
I 

THE   ROSE 

XAMINE   it   closely,"    said   the   man   in   the 
unusual  caped  overcoat.      "It  will  repay  ex- 


amination." 


I  held  the  little  object  in  the  palm  of  my  hand, 
bending  forward  over  the  marble-topped  table  and 
looking  down  at  it  with  deep  curiosity.  The  babel  of 
tongues  so  characteristic  of  Malay  Jack's,  and  that 
mingled  odour  of  stale  spirits,  greasy  humanity, 
tobacco,  cheap  perfume,  and  opium,  which  distin- 
guish the  establishment  faded  from  my  ken.  A 
sense  of  loneliness  came  to  me. 

Perhaps  I  should  say  that  it  became  complete.  I 
had  grown  conscious  of  its  approach  at  the  very 
moment  that  the  cadaverous  white-haired  man  had 
addressed  me.  There  was  a  quality  in  his  steadfast 
gaze  and  in  his  oddly  pitched  deep  voice  which  from 
the  first  had  wrapped  me  about — as  though  he  were 
cloaking  me  in  his  queer  personality  and  withdrawing 
me  from  the  common  plane. 

Having  stared  for  some  moments  at  the  object  in 
my  palm,  I  touched  it  gingerly;  whereupon  my  ac- 
quaintance laughed — a  short  bass  laugh. 

259 


26o  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"It  looks  fragile,"  he  said.  "But  have  no  fear. 
It  is  nearly  as  hard  as  a  diamond." 

Thus  encouraged,  I  took  the  thing  up  between 
finger  and  thumb,  and  held  it  before  my  eyes.  For 
long  enough  I  looked  at  it,  and  looking,  my  wonder 
grew.  I  thought  that  here  was  the  most  wonderful 
example  of  the  lapidary's  art  which  I  had  ever  met 
with,  east  or  west. 

It  was  a  tiny  pink  rose,  no  larger  than  the  nail  of 
my  little  finger.  Stalk  and  leaves  were  there,  and 
golden  pollen  lay  in  its  delicate  heart.  Each  fairy- 
petal  blushed  with  June  fire;  the  frail  leaves  were 
exquisitely  green.  Withal  it  was  as  hard  and  un- 
bendable  as  a  thing  of  steel. 

"Allow  me,"  said  the  masterful  voice. 

A  powerful  lens  was  passed  by  my  acquaintance. 
I  regarded  the  rose  through  the  glass,  and  thereupon 
I  knew,  beyond  doubt,  that  there  was  something 
phenomenal  about  the  gem — if  gem  it  were.  I  could 
plainly  trace  the  veins  and  texture  of  every  petal. 

I  suppose  I  looked  somewhat  startled.  Although, 
baldly  stated,  the  fact  may  not  seem  calculated  to 
affright,  in  reality  there  was  something  so  weird 
about  this  unnatural  bloom  that  I  dropped  it  on  the 
table.  As  I  did  so  I  uttered  an  exclamation;  for  in 
spite  of  the  stranger's  assurances  on  the  point,  I  had 
by  no  means  overcome  my  idea  of  the  thing's 
fragility. 

"Don't  be  alarmed,"  he  said,  meeting  my  startled 
gaze.  "It  would  need  a  steam-hammer  to  do  any 
serious  damage." 


TCHERIAPIN  261 

He  replaced  the  jewel  in  his  pocket,  and  when  I 
returned  the  lens  to  him  he  acknowledged  it  with  a 
grave  inclination  of  the  head.  As  I  looked  into  his 
sunken  eyes,  in  which  I  thought  lay  a  sort  of  sardonic 
merriment,  the  fantastic  idea  flashed  through  my 
mind  that  I  had  fallen  into  the  clutches  of  an  expert 
hypnotist  who  was  amusing  himself  at  my  expense, 
that  the  miniature  rose  was  a  mere  hallucination  pro- 
duced by  the  same  means  as  the  notorious  Indian  rope 
trick. 

Then,  looking  around  me  at  the  cosmopolitan  groups 
surrounding  the  many  tables,  and  catching  snatches  of 
conversations  dealing  with  subjects  so  diverse  as  the 
quality  of  whisky  in  Singapore,  the  frail  beauty  of 
Chinese  maidens,  and  the  ways  of  "bloody  greasers," 
common  sense  reasserted  itself. 

I  looked  into  the  gray  face  of  my  acquaintance. 

"I  cannot  believe,"  I  said  slowly,  "that  human  in- 
genuity could  so  closely  duplicate  the  handiwork  of 
nature.  Surely  the  gem  is  unique? — possibly  one  of 
those  magical  talismans  of  which  we  read  in  Eastern 
stories?" 

My  companion  smiled. 

"It  is  not  a  gem,"  he  replied,  "and  while  in  a  sense 
it  is  a  product  of  human  ingenuity,  it  is  also  the  handi- 
work of  nature." 

I  was  badly  puzzled,  and  doubtless  revealed  the 
fact,  for  the  stranger  laughed  in  his  short  fashion, 
and: 

"I  am  not  trying  to  mystify  you,"  he  assured  me. 
"But  the  truth  is  so  hard  to  believe  sometimes  that  in 


262  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

the  present  case  I  hesitate  to  divulge  it.  Did  you  ever 
meet  Tcheriapin?" 

This  abrupt  change  of  topic  somewhat  startled  me, 
but  nevertheless : 

"I  once  heard  him  play,"  I  replied.  "Why  do  you 
ask  the  question?" 

"For  this  reason:  Tcheriapin  possessed  the  only 
other  example  of  this  art  which  so  far  as  I  am  aware 
ever  left  the  laboratory  of  the  inventor.  He  occa- 
sionally wore  it  in  his  buttonhole." 

"It  is  then  a  manufactured  product  of  some  sort?" 

"As  I  have  said,  in  a  sense  it  is;  but" — he  drew 
the  tiny  exquisite  ornament  from  his  pocket  again  and 
held  it  up  before  me — "it  is  a  natural  bloom." 

"What!" 

"It  is  a  natural  bloom,"  replied  my  acquaintance, 
fixing  his  penetrating  gaze  upon  me.  "By  a  perfectly 
simple  process  invented  by  the  cleverest  chemist  of  his 
age  it  had  been  reduced  to  this  gem-like  state  while 
retaining  unimpaired  every  one  of  its  natural  beauties, 
every  shade  of  its  natural  colour.  You  are  incred- 
ulous?" 

"On  the  contrary,"  I  replied,  "having  examined  it 
through  a  magnifying  glass  I  had  already  assured 
myself  that  no  human  hand  had  fashioned  it.  You 
arouse  my  curiosity  intensely.  Such  a  process,  with 
its  endless  possibilities,  should  be  worth  a  fortune  to 
the  inventor." 

The  stranger  nodded  grimly  and  again  concealed 
the  rose  in  his  pocket. 

"You  are  right,"  he  said;  "and  the  secret  died  with 


TCHERIAPIN  263 

the  man  who  discovered  it — in  the  great  explosion  at 
the  Vortex  Works  in  1917.  You  recall  it?  The 
T.N.T.  factory?  It  shook  all  London,  and  frag- 
ments were  cast  into  three  counties." 

"I  recall  it  perfectly  well." 

"You  remember  also  the  death  of  Dr.  Kreener, 
the  chief  chemist?  He  died  in  an  endeavour  to  save 
some  of  the  workpeople." 

"I  remember." 

"He  was  the  inventor  of  the  process,  but  it  was 
never  put  upon  the  market.  He  was  a  singular  man, 
sir;  as  was  once  said  of  him — 'A  Don  Juan  of  science.' 
Dame  Nature  gave  him  her  heart  unwooed.  He 
trifled  with  science  as  some  men  trifle  with  love,  toss- 
ing aside  with  a  smile  discoveries  which  would  have 
made  another  famous.  This" — tapping  his  breast 
pocket — "was  one  of  them." 

"You  astound  me.  Do  I  understand  you  to  mean 
that  Dr.  Kreener  had  invented  a  process  for  reducing 
any  form  of  plant  life  to  this  condition?" 

"Almost  any  form,"  was  the  guarded  reply.  "And 
some  forms  of  animal  life." 

"What!" 

"If  you  like" — the  stranger  leaned  forward  and 
grasped  my  arm — "I  will  tell  you  the  story  of  Dr. 
Kreener's  last  experiment." 

I  was  now  intensely  interested.  I  had  not  forgotten 
the  heroic  death  of  the  man  concerning  whose  work 
this  chance  acquaintance  of  mine  seemed  to  know  so 
much.  And  in  the  cadaverous  face  of  the  stranger  as 
he  sat  there  regarding  me  fixedly  there  was  a  promise 


264  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

and  an  allurement.  I  stood  on  the  verge  of  strange 
things;  so  that,  looking  into  the  deep-set  eyes,  once 
again  I  felt  the  cloak  being  drawn  about  me,  and  I 
resigned  myself  willingly  to  the  illusion. 

From  the  moment  when  he  began  to  speak  again 
until  that  when  I  rose  and  followed  him  from  Malay 
Jack's,  as  I  shall  presently  relate,  I  became  oblivious 
of  my  surroundings.  I  lived  and  moved  through 
those  last  fevered  hours  in  the  lives  of  Dr.  Kreener, 
Tcheriapin,  the  violinist,  and  that  other  tragic  figure 
around  whom  the  story  centred.  I  append: 

THE  STRANGER'S  STORY 

I  asked  you  (said  the  man  in  the  caped  coat)  if 
you  had  even  seen  Tcheriapin,  and  you  replied  that 
you  had  once  heard  him  play.  Having  once  heard  him 
play  you  will  not  have  forgotten  him.  At  that  time, 
although  war  still  raged,  all  musical  London  was  ask- 
ing where  he  had  come  from  and  to  what  nation  he 
belonged.  Then  when  he  disappeared  it  was  variously 
reported,  you  will  recall,  that  he  had  been  shot  as  a 
spy  and  that  he  had  escaped  from  England  and  was 
serving  with  the  Austrian  army.  As  to  his  parentage 
I  can  enlighten  you  in  a  measure.  He  was  a  Eurasian. 
His  father  was  an  aristocratic  Chinaman,  and  his 
mother  a  Polish  ballet-dancer — that  was  his  parent- 
age; but  I  would  scarcely  hesitate  to  affirm  that  he 
came  from  Hell;  and  I  shall  presently  show  you  that 
he  has  certainly  returned  there. 

You  remember   the  strange   stories  current   about 


TCHERIAPIN  265 

him.  The  cunning  ones  said  that  he  had  a  clever 
press  agent.  This  was  true  enough.  One  of  the 
most  prominent  agents  in  London  discovered  him 
playing  in  a  Paris  cabaret.  Two  months  later  he  was 
playing  at  the  Queen's  Hall,  and  musical  London  lay 
at  his  feet. 

He  had  something  of  the  personality  of  Paganini, 
as  you  remember,  except  that  he  was  a  smaller  man; 
long,  gaunt,  yellowish  hands  and  the  face  of  a  haggard 
Mephistopheles.  The  critics  quarrelled  about  him, 
as  critics  only  quarrel  about  real  genius,  and  while  one 
school  proclaimed  that  Tcheriapin  had  discovered  an 
entirely  new  technique,  a  revolutionary  system  of 
violin  playing,  another  school  was  equally  positive  in 
declaring  that  he  could  not  play  at  all,  that  he  was  a 
mountebank,  a  trickster,  whose  proper  place  was  in 
a  variety  theatre. 

There  were  stories,  too,  that  were  never  published 
— not  only  about  Tcheriapin,  but  concerning  the  Strad, 
upon  which  he  played.  If  all  this  atmosphere  of 
mystery  which  surrounded  the  man  had  truly  been  the 
work  of  a  press  agent,  then  the  agent  must  have  been 
as  great  a  genius  as  his  client.  But  I  can  assure  you 
that  the  stories  concerning  Tcheriapin,  true  and  absurd 
alike,  were  not  inspired  for  business  purposes;  they 
grew  up  around  him  like  fungi. 

I  can  see  him  now,  a  lean,  almost  emaciated  figure 
with  slow,  sinuous  movements  and  a  trick  of  glancing 
sideways  with  those  dark,  unfathomable,  slightly 
oblique  eyes.  He  could  take  up  his  bow  in  such  a 
way  as  to  create  an  atmosphere  of  electrical  suspense. 


266  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

He  was  loathsome,  yet  fascinating.  One's  mental 
attitude  toward  him  was  one  of  defence,  of  being 
tensely  on  guard.  Then  he  would  play. 

You  have  heard  him  play,  and  it  is  therefore  un- 
necessary for  me  to  attempt  to  describe  the  effect  of 
that  music.  The  only  composition  which  ever  bore 
his  name — I  refer  to  "The  Black  Mass" — affected 
me  on  every  occasion  when  I  heard  it,  as  no  other 
composition  has  ever  done. 

Perhaps  it  was  Tcheriapin's  playing  rather  than 
the  music  itself  which  reached  down  into  hitherto  un- 
plumbed  depths  within  me  and  awakened  dark  things 
which,  unsuspected,  lay  there  sleeping.  I  never  heard 
"The  Black  Mass"  played  by  anyone  else;  indeed,  I 
am  not  aware  that  it  was  ever  published.  But  had  it 
been  we  should  rarely  hear  it.  Like  Locke's  music  to 
"Macbeth"  it  bears  an  unpleasant  reputation;  to  in- 
clude it  in  any  concert  programme  would  be  to  court 
disaster.  An  idle  superstition,  perhaps,  but  there  is 
much  naivete  in  the  artistic  temperament. 

Men  detested  Tcheriapin,  yet  when  he  chose  he 
could  win  over  his  bitterest  enemies.  Women  fol- 
lowed him  as  children  followed  the  Pied  Piper;  he 
courted  none,  but  was  courted  by  all.  He  would  glance 
aside  with  those  black,  slanting  eyes,  shrug  in  his 
insolent  fashion,  and  turn  away.  And  they  would  fol- 
low. God  knows  how  many  of  them  followed — 
whether  through  the  dens  of  Limehouse  or  the  more 
fashionable  salons  of  vice  in  the  West  End — they 
followed — perhaps  down  to  Hell.  So  much  for 
Tcheriapin. 


TCHERIAPIN  267 

At  the  time  when  the  episode  occurred  to  which  I 
have  referred,  Dr.  Kreener  occupied  a  house  in 
Regent's  Park,  to  which,  when  his  duties  at  the  muni- 
tion works  allowed,  he  would  sometimes  retire  at 
week-ends.  He  was  a  man  of  complex  personality. 
I  think  no  one  ever  knew  him  thoroughly;  indeed, 
I  doubt  if  he  knew  himself. 

He  was  hail-fellow-well-met  with  the  painters, 
sculptors,  poets,  and  social  reformers  who  have  made 
of  Soho  a  new  Mecca.  No  movement  in  art  was  so 
modern  that  Dr.  Kreener  was  not  conversant  with  it; 
no  development  in  Bolshevism  so  violent  or  so  secret 
that  Dr.  Kreener  could  not  speak  of  it  complacently 
and  with  inside  knowledge. 

These  were  his  Bohemian  friends,  these  dreamers 
and  schemers.  Of  this  side  of  his  life  his  scientific 
colleagues  knew  little  or  nothing,  but  in  his  hours  of 
leisure  at  Regent's  Park  it  was  with  these  dreamers 
that  he  loved  to  surround  himself  rather  than  with  his 
brethren  of  the  laboratory.  I  think  if  Dr.  Kreener 
had  not  been  a  great  chemist  he  would  have  been  a 
great  painter,  or  perhaps  a  politician,  or  even  a  poet. 
Triumph  was  his  birthright,  and  the  fruits  for  which 
lesser  men  reached  out  in  vain  fell  ripe  into  his  hands. 

The  favourite  meeting-place  for  these  oddly 
assorted  boon  companions  was  the  doctor's  laboratory, 
which  was  divided  from  the  house  by  a  moderately 
large  garden.  Here  on  a  Sunday  evening  one  might 
meet  the  very  "latest"  composer,  the  sculptor  bring- 
ing a  new  "message,"  or  the  man  destined  to  supplant 
with  the  ballet  the  time-worn  operatic  tradition. 


268  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

But  while  some  of  these  would  come  and  go,  so 
that  one  could  never  count  with  certainty  upon  meet- 
ing them,  there  was  one  who  never  failed  to  be  present 
when  such  an  informal  reception  was  held.  Of  him 
I  must  speak  at  greater  length,  for  a  reason  which 
will  shortly  appear. 

Andrews  was  the  name  by  which  he  was  known  to 
the  circles  in  which  he  moved.  No  one,  from  Sir  John 
Tennier,  the  fashionable  portrait  painter,  to  Kruski, 
of  the  Russian  ballet,  disputed  Andrews's  right  to  be 
counted  one  of  the  elect.  Yet  it  was  known,  nor  did 
he  trouble  to  hide  the  fact,  that  Andrews  was 
employed  at  a  large  printing  works  in  South  London, 
designing  advertisements.  He  was  a  great,  red- 
bearded,  unkempt  Scotsman,  and  only  once  can  I  re- 
member to  have  seen  him  strictly  sober;  but  to  hear 
him  talk  about  painters  and  painting  in  his  thick 
Caledonian  accent  was  to  look  into  the  soul  of  an 
artist. 

He  was  as  sour  as  an  unripe  grape-fruit,  cynical, 
embittered,  a  man  savagely  disappointed  with  life  and 
the  world;  and  tragedy  was  written  all  over  him.  If 
anyone  knew  the  secret  of  his  wasted  life  it  was  Dr. 
Kreener,  and  Dr.  Kreener  was  a  reliquary  of  so  many 
secrets  that  this  one  was  safe  as  if  the  grave  had 
swallowed  it. 

One  Sunday  Tcheriapin  joined  the  party.  That  he 
would  gravitate  there  sooner  or  later  was  inevitable, 
for  the  laboratory  in  the  garden  was  a  Kaaba  to  which 
all  such  spirits  made  at  least  one  pilgrimage.  He  had 
just  set  musical  London  on  fire  with  his  barbaric  play- 


TCHERIAPIN  269 

ing,  and  already  those  stories  to  which  I  have  referred 
were  creeping  into  circulation. 

Although  Dr.  Kreener  never  expected  anything  of 
his  guests  beyond  an  interchange  of  ideas,  it  was  a 
fact  that  the  laboratory  contained  an  almost  unique 
collection  of  pencil  and  charcoal  studies  by  famous 
artists,  done  upon  the  spot;  of  statuettes  in  wax,  putty, 
soap  and  other  extemporized  materials,  by  the  newest 
sculptors.  While  often  enough  from  the  drawing 
room  which  opened  upon  the  other  end  of  the  garden 
had  issued  the  strains  of  masterly  piano-playing,  and 
it  was  no  uncommon  thing  for  little  groups  to  gather 
in  the  neighbouring  road  to  listen,  gratis,  to  the  voice 
of  some  great  vocalist 

From  the  first  moment  of  their  meeting  an  intense 
antagonism  sprang  up  between  Tcheriapin  and 
Andrews.  Neither  troubled  very  much  to  veil  it.  In 
Tcheriapin  it  found  expression  in  covert  sneers  and 
sidelong  glances,  while  the  big,  lion-maned  Scots- 
man snorted  open  contempt  of  the  Eurasian 
violinist.  However,  what  I  was  about  to  say  was 
that  Tcheriapin  on  the  occasion  of  his  first  visit  brought 
his  violin. 

It  was  there,  amid  these  incongruous  surroundings, 
that  I  first  had  my  spirit  tortured  by  the  strains  of 
"The  Black  Mass." 

There  were  five  of  us  present,  including  Tcheriapin, 
and  not  one  of  the  four  listeners  was  unaffected  by  the 
music.  But  the  influence  which  it  exercised  upon 
Andrews  was  so  extraordinary  as  almost  to  reach  the 
phenomenal.  He  literally  writhed  in  his  chair,  and 


270  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

finally  interrupted  the  performance  by  staggering 
rather  than  walking  out  of  the  laboratory. 

I  remember  that  he  upset  a  jar  of  acid  in  his 
stumbling  exit.  It  flowed  across  the  floor  almost  to 
the  feet  of  Tcheriapin,  and  the  way  in  which  the  little 
black-haired  man  skipped,  squealing,  out  of  the  path 
of  the  corroding  fluid  was  curiously  like  that  of  a 
startled  rabbit.  Order  was  restored  in  due  course, 
but  we  could  not  induce  Tcheriapin  to  play  again,  nor 
did  Andrews  return  until  the  violinist  had  taken  his 
departure.  We  found  him  in  the  dining  room,  a 
nearly  empty  whisky-bottle  beside  him. 

"I  had  to  gang  awa',"  he  explained  thickly;  "he 
was  temptin'  me  to  murder  him.  I  should  ha'  had  to 
do  it  if  I  had  stayed.  Damn  his  hell-music." 

Tcheriapin  revisited  Dr.  Kreener  on  many  occa- 
sions afterward,  although  for  a  long  time  he  did  not 
bring  his  violin  again.  The  doctor  had  prevailed 
upon  Andrews  to  tolerate  the  Eurasian's  company, 
and  I  could  not  help  noticing  how  Tcheriapin  skilfully 
and  deliberately  goaded  the  Scotsman,  seeming  to 
take  a  fiendish  delight  in  disagreeing  with  his  pet 
theories  and  in  discussing  any  topic  which  he  had 
found  to  be  distasteful  to  Andrews. 

Chief  among  these  was  that  sort  or  irreverent 
criticism  of  women  in  which  male  parties  so  often  in- 
dulge. Bitter  cynic  though  he  was,  women  were 
sacred  to  Andrews.  To  speak  disrespectfully  of  a 
woman  in  his  presence  was  like  uttering  blasphemy 
in  the  study  of  a  cardinal.  Tcheriapin  very  quickly 
detected  the  Scotsman's  weakness,  and  one  night  he 


TCHERIAPIN  271 

launched  out  into  a  series  of  amorous  adventures  which 
set  Andrews  writhing  as  he  had  writhed  under  the 
torture  of  "The  Black  Mass." 

On  this  occasion  the  party  was  only  a  small  one, 
comprising  myself,  Dr.  Kreener,  Andrews  and 
Tcheriapin.  I  could  feel  the  storm  brewing,  but  was 
powerless  to  check  it.  How  presently  it  was  to  break 
in  tragic  violence  I  could  not  foresee.  Fate  had  not 
meant  that  I  should  foresee  it. 

Allowing  for  the  free  play  of  an  extravagant 
artistic  mind,  Tcheriapin's  career  on  his  own  showing 
had  been  that  of  a  callous  blackguard.  I  began  by 
being  disgusted  and  ended  by  being  fascinated,  not 
by  the  man's  scandalous  adventures,  but  by  the 
scarcely  human  psychology  of  the  narrator. 

From  Warsaw  to  Budapesth,  Shanghai  to  Paris, 
and  Cairo  to  London  he  passed,  leaving  ruin  behind 
him  with  a  smile — airily  flicking  cigarette  ash  upon 
the  floor  to  indicate  the  termination  of  each  "episode." 

Andrews  watched  him  in  a  lowering  way  which  I 
did  not  like  at  all.  He  had  ceased  to  snort  his  scorn; 
indeed,  for  ten  minutes  or  so  he  had  uttered  no  word 
or  sound;  but  there  was  something  in  the  pose  of  his 
ungainly  body  which  strangely  suggested  that  of  a 
great  dog  preparing  to  spring.  Presently  the  violinist 
recalled  what  he  termed  a  "charming  idyll  of 
Normandy." 

"There  is  one  poor  fool  in  the  world,"  he  said, 
shrugging  his  slight  shoulders,  "who  never  knew  how 
badly  he  should  hate  me.  Ha !  ha !  of  him  I  shall 
tell  you.  Do  you  remember,  my  friends,  some  few 


272  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

years  ago,  a  picture  that  was  published  in  Paris  and 
London?  Everybody  bought  it;  everybody  said:  (He 
is  a  made  man,  this  fellow  who  can  paint  so  fine.'  ' 

"To  what  picture  do  you  refer?"  asked  Dr. 
Kreener. 

"It  was  called  'A  Dream  at  Dawn.'  " 

As  he  spoke  the  words  I  saw  Andrews  start  for- 
ward, and  Dr.  Kreener  exchanged  a  swift  glance  with 
him.  But  the  Scotsman,  unseen  by  the  vainglorious 
half-caste,  shook  his  head  fiercely. 

The  picture  to  which  Tcheriapin  referred  will,  of 
course,  be  perfectly  familiar  to  you.  It  had  phenom- 
enal popularity  some  eight  years  ago.  Nothing  was 
known  of  the  painter — whose  name  was  Colquhoun — 
and  nothing  has  been  seen  of  his  work  since.  The 
original  painting  was  never  sold,  and  after  a  time  this 
promising  new  artist  was,  of  course,  forgotten. 

Presently  Tcheriapin  continued: 

"It  is  the  figure  of  a  slender  girl — ah!  angels  of 
grace! — what  a  girl!"  He  kissed  his  hand  raptur- 
ously. "She  is  posed  bending  gracefully  forward,  and 
looking  down  at  her  own  lovely  reflection  in  the  water. 
It  is  a  seashore,  you  remember,  and  the  little  ripples 
play  about  her  ankles.  The  first  blush  of  the  dawn 
robes  her  white  body  in  a  transparent  mantle  of  light. 
Ah!  God's  mercy!  it  was  as  she  stood  so,  in  a  little 
cove  of  Normandy,  that  I  saw  her!" 

He  paused,  rolling  his  dark  eyes;  and  I  could  hear 
Andrews's  heavy  breathing {  then: 

"It  was  the  'new  art' — the  posing  of  the  model  not 
in  a  lighted  studio,  but  in  the  scene  to  be  depicted. 


TCHERIAPIN  273 

And  the  fellow  who  painted  her ! — the  man  with  the 
barbarous  name!  Bah!  he  was  big — as  big  as  our 
Mr.  Andrews — and  ugly — pooh !  uglier  than  he !  A 
moon-face,  with  cropped  skull  like  a  prize-fighter  and 
no  soul.  But,  yes,  he  could  paint.  'A  Dream  at 
Dawn'  was  genius — yes,  some  soul  he  must  have  had. 
"He  could  paint,  dear  friends,  but  he  could  not 
love,  Him  I  counted  as — puff  I" 

He  blew  imaginary  down  into  space. 
"Her  I  sought  out,  and  presently  found.  She  told 
me,  in  those  sweet  stolen  rambles  along  the  shore, 
when  the  moonlight  made  her  look  like  a  Madonna, 
that  she  was  his  inspiration — his  art — his  life.  And 
she  wept ;  she  wept,  and  I  kissed  her  tears  away. 

"To  please  her  I  waited  until  'A  Dream  at  Dawn' 
was  finished.  With  the  finish  of  the  picture,,  finished 
also  his  dream  of  dawn — the  moon-faced  one's." 
Tcheriapin  laughed,  and  lighted  a  fresh  cigarette. 
"Can  you  believe  that  a  man  could  be  so  stupid? 
He  never  knew  of  my  existence,  this  big,  red  booby. 
He  never  knew  that  I  existed  until — until  his  'dream' 
had  fled — with  me !  In  a  week  we  were  in  Paris,  that 
dream-girl  and  I — in  a  month  we  had  quarrelled.  I 
always  end  these  matters  with  a  quarrel;  it  makes  the 
complete  finish.  She  struck  me  in  the  face — and  I 
laughed.  She  turned  and  went  away.  We  were 
tired  of  one  another. 

"Ah!"  Again  he  airily  kissed  his  hand.  "There 
were  others  after  I  had  gone.  I  heard  for  a  time. 
But  her  memory  is  like  a  rose,  fresh  and  fair  and  sweet. 
I  am  glad  I  can  remember  her  so,  and  not  as  she  after- 


274  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

ward  became.  That  is  the  art  of  love.  She  killed 
herself  with  absinthe,  my  friends.  She  died  in  Mar- 
seilles in  the  first  year  of  the  great  war." 

Thus  far  Tcheriapin  had  proceeded,  and  was  in 
the  act  of  airily  flicking  ash  upon  the  floor,  when, 
uttering  a  sound  which  I  can  only  describe  as  a 
roar,  Andrews  hurled  himself  upon  the  smiling 
violinist. 

His  great  red  hands  clutching  Tcheriapin's  throat, 
the  insane  Scotsman,  for  insane  he  was  at  that  mo- 
ment, forced  the  other  back  upon  the  settee  from 
which  he  had  half  arisen.  In  vain  I  sought  to  drag 
him  away  from  the  writhing  body,  but  I  doubt  that 
any  man  could  have  relaxed  that  deadly  grip.  Tcheria- 
pin's eyes  protruded  hideously  and  his  tongue  lolled 
forth  from  his  mouth.  One  could  hear  the  breath 
whistling  through  his  nostrils  as  Andrews  silently,  de- 
liberately, squeezed  the  life  out  of  him. 

It  all  occupied  only  a  few  minutes,  and  then 
Andrews,  slowly  opening  his  rigidly  crooked  fingers, 
stood  panting  and  looking  down  at  the  distorted  face 
of  the  dead  man. 

For  once  in  his  life  the  Scotsman  was  sober,  and 
turning  to  Dr.  Kreener: 

"I  have  waited  seven  long  years  for  this,"  he  said, 
"and  I'll  hang  wi'  contentment." 

I  can  never  forget  the  ensuing  moments,  in  which, 
amid  a  horrible  silence  broken  only  by  the  ticking  of 
a  clock  and  the  heavy  breathing  of  Colquhoun  (so 
long  known  to  us  as  Andrews)  we  stood  watching  the 
contorted  body  on  the  settee. 


TCHERIAPIN  275 

And  as  we  watched,  slowly  the  rigid  limbs  began 
to  relax,  and  Tcheriapin  slid  gently  on  to  the  floor, 
collapsing  there  with  a  soft  thud,  where  he  squatted 
like  some  hideous  Buddha,  resting  back  against  the 
cushions,  one  spectral  yellow  hand  upraised,  the  fin- 
gers still  clutching  a  big  gold  tassel. 

Andrews  (for  so  I  always  think  of  him)  was  seized 
with  a  violent  fit  of  trembling,  and  he  dropped  into 
the  chair,  muttering  to  himself  and  looking  down  wild- 
eyed  at  his  twitching  fingers.  Then  he  began  to  laugh, 
high-pitched  laughter,  in  little  short  peals. 

"Here!"  cried  the  doctor  sharply.     "Drop  that!" 

Crossing  to  Andrews,  he  grasped  him  by  the  shoul- 
ders and  shook  him  roughly. 

The  laughter  ceased,  and: 

"Send  for  the  police,"  said  Andrews  in  a  queer, 
shaky  voice.  "Dinna  fear  but  I'm  ready.  I'm  only 
sorry  it  happened  here." 

"You  ought  to  be  glad,"  said  Dr.  Kreener. 

There  was  a  covert  meaning  in  the  words — a  fact 
which  penetrated  even  to  the  dulled  intelligence  of 
the  Scotsman,  for  he  glanced  up  haggardly  at  his 
friend. 

"You  ought  to  be  glad,"  repeated  Dr.  Kreener. 

Turning,  he  walked  to  the  laboratory  door  and 
locked  it.  He  next  lowered  all  the  blinds. 

"I  pray  that  we  have  not  been  observed,"  he  said, 
"but  we  must  chance  it." 

He  mixed  a  drink  for  Andrews  and  himself.  His 
quiet,  decisive  manner  had  had  its  effect,  and  Andrews 
was  now  more  composed.  Indeed,  he  seemed  to  be 


276  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

in  a  half-dazed  condition;  but  he  persistently  kept  his 
back  turned  to  the  crouching  figure  propped  up  against 
the  settee. 

"If  you  think  you  can  follow  me,"  said  Dr.  Kreener 
abruptly,  "I  will  show  you  the  result  of  a  recent  ex- 
periment." 

Unlocking  a  cupboard,  he  took  out  a  tiny  figure 
some  two  inches  long  by  one  inch  high,  mounted  upon 
a  polished  wooden  pedestal.  It  was  that  of  a  guinea- 
pig.  The  flaky  fur  gleamed  like  the  finest  silk,  and 
one  felt  that  the  coat  of  the  minute  creature  would  be 
as  floss  to  the  touch;  whereas  in  reality  it  possessed 
the  rigidity  of  steel.  Literally  one  could  have  done 
it  little  damage  with  a  hammer.  Its  weight  was  ex- 
traordinary. 

"I  am  learning  new  things  about  this  process  every 
day,"  continued  Dr.  Kreener,  placing  the  little  figure 
upon  a  table.  "For  instance,  while  it  seems  to  oper- 
ate uniformly  upon  vegetable  matter,  there  are  curious 
modifications  when  one  applies  it  to  animal  and  min- 
eral substances.  I  have  now  definitely  decided  that 
the  result  of  this  particular  inquiry  must  never  be  pub- 
lished. You,  Colquhoun,  I  believe,  possess  an  ex- 
ample of  the  process,  a  tiger  lily,  I  think?  I  must 
ask  you  to  return  it  to  me.  Our  late  friend,  Tcheria- 
pin,  wears  a  pink  rose  in  his  coat  which  I  have  treated 
in  the  same  way.  I  am  going  to  take  the  liberty  of 
removing  it." 

He  spoke  in  the  hard,  incisive  manner  which  I  had 
heard  him  use  in  the  lecture  theatre,  and  it  was  evi- 
dent enough  that  his  design  was  to  prepare  Andrews 


TCHERIAPIN  277 

for  something  which  he  contemplated.  Facing  the 
Scotsman  where  he  sat  hunched  up  in  the  big  arm- 
chair,  dully  watching  the  speaker: 

"There  is  one  experiment,"  said  Dr.  Kreener,  speak- 
ing very  deliberately,  "which  I  have  never  before  had 
a  suitable  opportunity  of  attempting.  Of  its  result  I 
am  personally  confident,  but  science  always  demands 
proof." 

His  voice  rang  now  with  a  note  of  repressed  ex- 
citement. He  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then: 

"If  you  were  to  examine  this  little  specimen  very 
closely,"  he  said,  and  rested  his  finger  upon  the  tiny 
figure  of  the  guinea-pig,  "you  would  find  that  in  one 
particular  it  is  imperfect.  Although  a  diamond  drill 
would  have  to  be  employed  to  demonstrate  the  fact, 
the  animal's  organs,  despite  their  having  undergone  a 
chemical  change  quite  new  to  science,  are  intact,  per- 
fect down  to  the  smallest  detail.  One  part  of  the 
creature's  structure  alone  defied  my  process.  In  short, 
dental  enamel  is  impervious  to  it.  This  little  animal, 
otherwise  as  complete  as  when  it  lived  and  breathed, 
has  no  teeth.  I  found  it  necessary  to  extract  them 
before  submitting  the  body  to  the  reductionary  pro- 


cess." 


He  paused. 

"Shall  I  go  on?"  he  asked. 

Andrews,  to  whose  mind,  I  think,  no  conception  of 
the  doctor's  project  had  yet  penetrated,  shuddered, 
but  slowly  nodded  his  head. 

Dr.  Kreener  glanced  across  the  laboratory  at  the 
crouching  figure  of  Tcheriapin,  then,  resting  his  hands 


278  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

upon  Andrews's  shoulders,  he  pushed  him  back  in  the 
chair  and  stared  into  his  dull  eyes. 

"Brace  yourself,  Colquhoun,"  he  said  tersely. 

Turning,  he  crossed  to  a  small  mahogany  cabinet  at 
the  farther  end  of  the  room.  Pulling  out  a  glass  tray 
he  judicially  selected  a  pair  of  dental  forceps. 


II 

"THE  BLACK  MASS" 

THUS  far  the  stranger's  appalling  story  had 
progressed  when  that  singular  cloak  in  which 
hypnotically  he  had  enwrapped  me  seemed  to 
drop,  and  I  found  myself  clutching  the  edge  of  the 
table  and  staring  into  the  gray  face  of  the  speaker. 

I  became  suddenly  aware  of  the  babel  of  voices 
about  me,  of  the  noisome  smell  of  Malay  Jack's,  and 
of  the  presence  of  Jack  in  person,  who  was  inquiring 
if  there  were  any  further  orders.  I  was  conscious  of 
nausea. 

"Excuse  me,"  I  said,  rising  unsteadily,  "but  I  fear 
the  oppressive  atmosphere  is  affecting  me." 

"If  you  prefer  to  go  out,"  said  my  acquaintance, 
in  that  deep  voice  which  throughout  the  dreadful 
story  had  rendered  me  oblivious  of  my  surroundings, 
"I  should  be  much  favoured  if  you  would  accompany 
me  to  a  spot  not  five  hundred  yards  from  here." 

Seeing  me  hesitate : 

"I  have  a  particular  reason  for  asking,"  he  added. 

"Very  well,"  I  replied,  inclining  my  head,  "if  you 
wish  it.  But  certainly  I  must  seek  the  fresh  air." 

Going  up  the  steps  and  out  through  the  door  above 
which  the  blue  lantern  burned,  we  came  to  the  street, 

279 


28o  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

turned  to  the  left,  to  the  left  again,  and  soon  were 
threading  that  maze  of  narrow  ways  which  compli- 
cates the  map  of  Pennyfields. 

I  felt  somewhat  recovered.  Here,  in  the  narrow 
but  familiar  highways  the  spell  of  my  singular  ac- 
quaintance lost  much  of  its  potency,  and  already  I 
found  myself  doubting  the  story  of  Dr.  Kreener  and 
Tcheriapin.  Indeed,  I  began  to  laugh  at  myself,  con- 
ceiving that  I  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  some 
comedian  who  was  making  sport  of  me ;  although  why 
such  a  person  should  visit  Malay  Jack's  was  not  ap- 
parent. 

I  was  about  to  give  expression  to  these  new  and 
saner  ideas  when  my  companion  paused  before  a  door 
half  hidden  in  a  little  alley  which  divided  the  back  of 
a  Chinese  restaurant  from  the  tawdry-looking  estab- 
lishment of  a  cigar  merchant.  He  apparently  held 
the  key,  for  although  I  did  not  actually  hear  the  turn- 
ing of  the  lock  I  saw  that  he  had  opened  the  door. 

"May  I  request  you  to  follow  me?"  came  his  deep 
voice  out  of  the  darkness.  "I  will  show  you  some- 
thing which  will  repay  your  trouble. " 

Again  the  cloak  touched  me,  but  it  was  without 
entirely  resigning  myself  to  the  compelling  influence 
that  I  followed  my  mysterious  acquaintance  up  an  un- 
carpeted  and  nearly  dark  stair.  On  the  landing  above 
a  gas  lamp  was  burning,  and  opening  a  door  immedi- 
ately facing  the  stair  the  stranger  conducted  me  into  a 
barely  furnished  and  untidy  room. 

The  atmosphere  smelled  like  that  of  a  pot-house, 
the  odours  of  stale  spirits  and  of  tobacco  mingling 


TCHERIAPIN  281 

unpleasantly.  As  my  guide  removed  his  hat  and 
stood  there,  a  square,  gaunt  figure  in  his  queer,  caped 
overcoat,  I  secured  for  the  first  time  a  view  of  his 
face  in  profile;  and  found  it  to  be  startlingly  unfa- 
miliar. Seen  thus,  my  acquaintance  was  another  man. 
I  realized  that  there  was  something  unnatural  about 
the  long,  white  hair,  the  gray  face ;  that  the  sharp  out- 
line of  brow,  nose,  and  chin  was  that  of  a  much 
younger  man  than  I  had  supposed  him  to  be. 

All  this  came  to  me  in  a  momentary  flash  of  per- 
ception, for  immediately  my  attention  was  riveted 
upon  a  figure  hunched  up  on  a  dilapidated  sofa  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  room.  It  was  that  of  a  big  man, 
bearded  and  very  heavily  built,  but  whose  face  was 
scarred  as  by  years  of  suffering,  and  whose  eyes  con- 
firmed the  story  indicated  by  the  smell  of  stale  spirits 
with  which  the  air  of  the  room  was  laden.  A  nearly 
empty  bottle  stood  on  a  table  at  his  elbow,  a  glass 
beside  it,  and  a  pipe  lay  in  a  saucer  full  of  ashes  near 
the  glass. 

As  we  entered,  the  glazed  eyes  of  the  man  opened 
widely  and  he  clutched  at  the  table  with  big  red  hands, 
leaning  forward  and  staring  horribly. 

Save  for  this  derelict  figure  and  some  few  dirty  uten- 
sils and  scattered  garments  which  indicated  that  the 
apartment  was  used  both  as  sleeping  and  living  room, 
there  was  so  little  of  interest  in  the  place  that  auto- 
matically my  wandering  gaze  strayed  from  the  figure 
on  the  sofa  to  a  large  oil  painting,  unframed,  which 
rested  upon  the  mantelpiece  above  the  dirty  grate,  in 
which  the  fire  had  become  extinguished. 


282  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

I  uttered  a  stifled  exclamation.  It  was  "  A  Dream 
at  Dawn" —  evidently  the  original  painting! 

On  the  left  of  it,  from  a  nail  in  the  wall,  hung  a 
violin  and  bow,  and  on  the  right  stood  a  sort  of  cylin- 
drical glass  case  or  closed  jar,  upon  a  wooden  base. 

From  the  moment  that  I  perceived  the  contents  of 
this  glass  case  a  sense  of  fantasy  claimed  me,  and  I 
ceased  to  know  where  reality  ended  and  mirage  began. 

It  contained  a  tiny  and  perfect  figure  of  a  man. 
He  was  arrayed  in  a  beautifully  fitting  dress-suit  such 
as  a  doll  might  have  worn,  and  he  was  posed  as  if  in 
the  act  of  playing  a  violin,  although  no  violin  was 
present.  At  the  elfin  black  hair  and  Mephistophelian 
face  of  this  horrible,  wonderful  image,  I  stared  fas- 
cinatedly. 

I  looked  and  looked  at  the  dwarfed  figure  of  ... 
Tcheriapinf 

All  these  impressions  came  to  me  in  the  space  of  a 
few  hectic  moments,  when  in  upon  my  mental  tumult 
intruded  a  husky  whisper  from  the  man  on  the  sofa. 

"Kreener!"  he  said.     "Kreener/" 

At  the  sound  of  that  name,  and  because  of  the  way 
in  which  it  was  pronounced,  I  felt  my  blood  running 
cold.  The  speaker  was  staring  straight  at  my  com- 
panion. 

I  clutched  at  the  open  door.  I  felt  that  there  was 
still  some  crowning  horror  to  come.  I  wanted  to 
escape  from  that  reeking  room,  but  my  muscles  re- 
fused to  obey  me,  and  there  I  stood  while : 

"Kreener!"  repeated  the  husky  voice,  and  I  saw 
that  the  speaker  was  rising  unsteadily  to  his  feet. 


TCHERIAPIN  283 

"You  have  brought  him  again.  Why  have  you 
brought  him  again?  He  will  play.  He  will  play  me 
a  step  nearer  to  Hell." 

"Brace  yourself,  Colquhoun,"  said  the  voice  of  my 
companion.  "Brace  yourself." 

"Take  him  awa'  I"  came  in  a  sudden  frenzied  shriek. 
"Take  him  awa' !  He's  there  at  your  elbow,  Kreener, 
mockin'  me,  and  pointing  to  that  damned  violin." 

"Here!"  said  the  stranger,  a  high  note  of  com- 
mand in  his  voice.  "Drop  that!  Sit  down  at  once." 

Even  as  the  other  obeyed  him,  the  cloaked  stranger, 
stepping  to  the  mantelpiece,  opened  a  small  box  which 
lay  there  beside  the  glass  case.  He  turned  to  me; 
and  I  tried  to  shrink  away  from  him.  For  I  knew — I 
knew — yet  I  loathed  to  look  upon — what  was  in  the 
box.  Muffled  as  though  reaching  me  through  fog,  I 
heard  the  words: 

"A  perfect  human  body  ...  in  miniature 
.  .  .  every  organ  intact  by  means  of  .  . 
process  .  .  .  rendered  indestructible.  Tcheria- 
pin  as  he  was  in  life  may  be  seen  by  the  curious  ten 
thousand  years  hence.  Incomplete  .  .  .  one 
respect  .  .  .  here  in  this  box  .  .  ." 

The  spell  was  broken  by  a  horrifying  shriek  from 
the  man  whom  my  companion  had  addressed  as  Colqu- 
houn, and  whom  I  could  only  suppose  to  be  the  painter 
of  the  celebrated  picture  which  rested  upon  the  man- 
telshelf. 

"Take  him  awa',  Kreener!  He  is  reaching  for  the 
violin!" 

Animation  returned  to  me,  and  I  fell  rather  than 


284  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

ran  down  the  darkened  stair.  How  I  opened  the 
street  door  I  know  not,  but  even  as  I  stepped  out  into 
the  squalid  alleys  of  Pennyfields  the  cloaked  figure 
was  beside  me.  A  hand  was  laid  upon  my  shoulder. 

•'Listen!"  commanded  a  deep  voice. 

Clearly,  with  an  eerie  sweetness,  an  evil,  hellish 
beauty  indescribable,  the  wailing  of  a  Stradivarius 
violin  crept  to  my  ears  from  the  room  above.  Slowly 
— slowly  the  music  began,  and  my  soul  rose  up  in 
revolt. 

"Listen  1"  repeated  the  voice.  "Listen !  It  is  The 
Black  Mass'  1" 


THE  DANCE  OF  THE  VEILS 


THE  DANCE  OF  THE  VEILS 

I 

THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  AGAPOULOS 

HASSAN  came  in  and  began  very  deliberately 
to  light  the  four  lamps.  He  muttered  to 
himself  and  often  smiled  in  the  childish  man- 
ner which  characterizes  some  Egyptians.  Hassan 
wore  a  red  cap,  and  a  white  robe  confined  at  the  waist 
by  a  red  sash.  On  his  brown  feet  he  wore  loose  slip- 
pers, also  of  red.  He  had  good  features  and  made  a 
very  picturesque  figure  moving  slowly  about  his  work. 
As  he  lighted  lamp  after  lamp  and  soft  illumination 
crept  about  the  big  room,  because  of  the  heavy  shad- 
ows created  the  place  seemed  to  become  mysteriously 
enlarged.  That  it  was  an  Eastern  apartment  cun- 
ningly devised  to  appeal  to  the  Western  eye,  one  famil- 
iar with  Arab  households  must  have  seen  at  once.  It 
was  a  traditional  Oriental  interior,  a  stage  setting 
rather  than  the  nondescript  and  generally  uninterest- 
ing environment  of  the  modern  Egyptian  at  home. 

Brightly  coloured  divans  there  were  and  many 
silken  cushions  of  strange  pattern  and  design.  The 
hanging  lamps  were  of  perforated  brass  with  little 
coloured  glass  panels.  In  carved  wooden  cabinets 

287 


288  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

stood  beautiful  porcelain  jars,  trays,  and  vessels  of 
silver  and  copper  ware.  Rich  carpets  were  spread 
about  the  floor,  and  the  draperies  were  elegant  and 
costly,  while  two  deep  windows  projecting  over  the 
court  represented  the  best  period  of  Arab  architecture. 
Their  intricate  carven  woodwork  had  once  adorned 
the  palace  of  a  Grand  Wazir.  Agapoulos  had  bought 
them  in  Cairo  and  had  had  them  fitted  to  his  house  in 
Chinatown.  A  smaller  brass  lamp  of  very  delicate 
workmanship  was  suspended  in  each  of  the  recesses. 

As  Hassan,  having  lighted  the  four  larger  lanterns, 
was  proceeding  leisurely  to  light  the  first  of  the  smaller 
ones,  draperies  before  a  door  at  the  east  end  of  the 
room  were  parted  and  Agapoulos  came  in.  Aga- 
poulos was  a  short  but  portly  Greek  whom  the  care- 
less observer  might  easily  have  mistaken  for  a  Jew. 
He  had  much  of  the  appearance  of  a  bank  manager, 
having  the  manners  of  one  used  to  making  himself 
agreeable,  but  also  possessing  the  money-eye  and  that 
comprehensive  glance  which  belongs  to  the  successful 
man  of  commerce. 

Standing  in  the  centre  of  the  place  he  brushed  his 
neat  black  moustache  with  a  plump  forefinger.  A 
diamond  ring  which  he  wore  glittered  brilliantly  in 
the  coloured  rays  of  the  lanterns.  With  his  right 
hand,  which  rested  in  his  trouser  pocket,  he  rattled 
keys.  His  glance  roved  about  the  room  appraisingly. 
Walking  to  a  beautifully  carved  Arab  cabinet  he  re- 
arranged three  pieces  of  Persian  copperware  which 
stood  upon  it.  He  moved  several  cushions,  and  tak- 
ing up  a  leopard  skin  which  lay  upon  the  floor  he 


THE  DANCE  OF  THE  VEILS          289 

draped  it  over  an  ebony  chair  which  was  inlaid  intri- 
cately with  ivory. 

The  drooping  eyelids  of  M.  Agapoulos  drooped 
lower,  as  returning  to  the  centre  of  the  room  he  criti- 
cally surveyed  the  effect  of  these  master  touches.  At 
the  moment  he  resembled  a  window-dresser,  or,  rather, 
one  of  those  high-salaried  artists  who  beautify  the 
great  establishments  of  Regent  Street,  the  Rue  de  la 
Paix,  and  Ruination  Avenue,  New  York. 

Hassan  lighted  the  sixth  lamp,  muttering  smilingly 
all  the  time.  He  was  about  to  depart  when  Agapou- 
los addressed  him  in  Arabic. 

"There  will  be  a  party  down  from  the  Savoy  to- 
night, Hassan.  No  one  else  is  to  come  unless  I  am 
told.  That  accursed  red  policeman,  Kerry,  has  been 
about  here  of  late.  Be  very  careful." 

Hassan  saluted  him  gravely  and  retired  through 
one  of  the  draped  openings.  In  his  hand  he  held  the 
taper  with  which  he  had  lighted  the  lamps.  In  order 
that  the  draperies  should  not  be  singed  he  had  to  hold 
them  widely  apart.  For  it  had  not  occurred  to  Has- 
san to  extinguish  the  taper.  The  Egyptian  mind  is 
complex  in  its  simplicity. 

M.  Agapoulos  from  a  gold  case  extracted  a  ciga- 
rette, and  lighting  it,  inhaled  the  smoke  contentedly, 
looking  about  him.  The  window-dresser  was  lost  again 
in  the  bank  manager  who  has  arranged  a  profitable 
overdraft.  Somewhere  a  bell  rang.  Hassan,  treading 
silently,  reappeared,  crossed  the  room,  and  opening  a 
finely  carved  door  walked  along  a  corridor  which  it  had 
concealed.  He  still  carried  the  lighted  taper. 


290  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

Presently  there  entered  a  man  whose  well-cut  serge 
suit  revealed  the  figure  of  a  soldier.  He  wore  a  soft 
gray  felt  hat  and  carried  light  gloves  and  a  cane.  His 
dark  face,  bronzed  by  recent  exposure  to  the  Egyp- 
tian sun,  was  handsome  in  a  saturnine  fashion,  and  a 
touch  of  gray  at  the  temples  tended  to  enhance  his 
good  looks.  He  carried  himself  in  that  kind  of  non- 
chalant manner  which  is  not  only  insular  but  almost 
insolent. 

M.  Agapoulos  bowed  extravagantly.  As  he  laid 
his  plump  hand  upon  his  breast  the  diamond  ring 
sparkled  in  a  way  most  opulent  and  impressive. 

"I  greet  you,  Major  Grantham,"  he  said.  "Be- 
hold"— he  waved  his  hand  glitteringly — "all  is  pre- 
pared." 

"Oh,  yes,"  murmured  the  other,  glancing  around 
without  interest;  "good.  You  are  beginning  to  get 
straight  in  your  new  quarters." 

Agapoulos  extended  the  prosperous  cigarette-case, 
and  Major  Grantham  took  and  lighted  a  superior 
cigarette. 

"How  many  in  the  party?"  inquired  the  Greek 
smilingly. 

"Three  and  myself." 

A  shadow  of  a  frown  appeared  upon  the  face  of 
Agapoulos. 

"Only  three,"  he  muttered. 

Major  Grantham  laughed. 

"You  should  know  me  by  this  time,  Agapoulos," 
he  said.  "The  party  is  small  but  exclusive,  you  under- 
stand?" 


THE  DANCE  OF  THE  VEILS          291 

He  spoke  wearily,  as  a  tired  man  speaks  of  dis- 
tasteful work  which  he  must  do.  There  was  contempt 
in  his  voice ;  contempt  of  Agapoulos,  and  contempt  of 
himself. 

"Ah!"  cried  the  Greek,  brightening;  "do  I  know 
any  of  them?" 

"Probably.  General  Sir  Francis  Payne,  Mr.  Eddie, 
and  Sir  Horace  Tipton." 

uAn  Anglo-American  party,  eh?" 

"Quite.  Mr.  Eddie  is  the  proprietor  of  the  well- 
known  group  of  American  hotels  justly  celebrated  for 
their  great  height  and  poisonous  cuisine;  while  Sir 
Horace  Tipton  alike  as  sportsman,  globe-trotter,  and 
soap  manufacturer,  is  characteristically  British.  Of 
General  Sir  Francis  Payne  I  need  only  say  that  his 
home  services  during  the  war  did  incalculable  harm  to 
our  prestige  throughout  the  Empire." 

He  spoke  with  all  the  bitterness  of  a  man  who  has 
made  a  failure  of  life.  Agapoulos  was  quite  restored 
to  good  humour. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed,  brushing  his  moustache  and 
rattling  his  keys;  "sportsmen,  eh?" 

Major  Grantham  dropped  into  the  carven  chair 
upon  which  the  Greek  had  draped  the  leopard  skin. 
Momentarily  the  window-dresser  leapt  into  life  as 
Agapoulos  beheld  one  of  his  cunning  effects  destroyed, 
but  he  forced  a  smile  when  Grantham,  shrugging  his 
shoulders,  replied: 

"If  they  are  fools  enough  to  play — the  usual  5  per 
cent,  on  the  bank's  takings." 

He  paused,  glancing  at  some  ash  upon  the  tip  of 


292  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

his  cigarette.  Agapoulos  swiftly  produced  an  ash- 
tray and  received  the  ash  on  it  in  the  manner  of  a 
churchwarden  collecting  half  a  crown  from  a  pew- 
holder. 

"I  think,"  continued  Grantham  indifferently,  "that 
it  will  be  the  dances.  Two  of  them  are  over  fifty." 

"Ah!"  said  Agapoulos  thoughtfully;  "not,  of 
course,  the  ordinary  programme?" 

Major  Grantham  looked  up  at  him  with  lazy  in- 
solence. 

"Why  ask?"  he  inquired.  "Does  Lucullus  crave 
for  sausages?  Do  philosophers  play  marbles?" 

He  laughed  again,  noting  the  rather  blank  look  of 
Agapoulos. 

"You  don't  know  what  I'm  talking  about,  do  you?" 
he  added.  "I  mean  to  say  that  these  men  have  been 
everywhere  and  done  everything.  They  have  drunk 
wine  sweet  and  sour  and  have  swallowed  the  dregs.  / 
am  bringing  them.  It  is  enough." 

"More  than  enough,"  declared  the  Greek  with 
enthusiasm.  He  bowed,  although  Grantham  was  not 
looking  at  him.  "In  the  little  matter  of  fees  I  can  rely 
upon  your  discretion,  as  always.  Is  it  not  said  that  a 
good  dragoman  is  a  desirable  husband?" 

Major  Grantham  resettled  himself  in  his  chair. 

"M.  Agapoulos,"  he  said  icily,  "we  have  done 
shady  business  together  for  years,  both  in  Port  Said 
and  in  London,  and  have  remained  the  best  of  friends; 
two  blackguards  linked  by  our  common  villainy.  But 
if  this  pleasant  commercial  acquaintance  is  to  con- 
tinue let  there  be  no  misunderstanding  between  us,  M. 


THE  DANCE  OF  THE  VEILS  293 

Agapoulos.  I  may  know  I'm  a  dragoman;  but  in 
future,  old  friend" — he  turned  lazy  eyes  upon  the 
Greek — "for  your  guidance,  don't  remind  me  of  the 
fact  or  I'll  wring  your  neck." 

The  drooping  eyelids  of  M.  Agapoulos  flickered 
significantly,  but  it  was  with  a  flourish  more  grand 
than  usual  that  he  bowed. 

"Pardon,  pardon,"  he  murmured.  "You  speak 
harshly  of  yourself,  but  ah,  you  do  not  mean  it.  We 
understand  each  other,  eh?" 

"I  understand  you  perfectly,"  drawled  Grantham; 
"I  was  merely  advising  you  to  endeavour  to  under- 
stand me.  My  party  will  arrive  at  nine  o'clock,  Aga- 
poulos, and  I  am  going  back  to  the  Savoy  shortly  to 
dress.  Meanwhile,  if  Hassan  would  bring  me  a 
whisky  and  soda  I  should  be  obliged." 

"Of  course,  of  course.  He  shall  do  so  at  once," 
cried  Agapoulos.  "I  will  tell  him." 

Palpably  glad  to  escape,  the  fat  Greek  retired, 
leaving  Major  Grantham  lolling  there  upon  the  leop- 
ard skin,  his  hat,  cane  and  gloves  upon  the  carpet  be- 
side him;  and  a  few  moments  later  Hassan  the  silent 
glided  into  the  extravagant  apartment  bearing  re- 
freshments. Placing  his  tray  upon  a  little  coffee-table 
beside  Major  Grantham,  he  departed. 

There  was  a  faint  smell  of  perfume  in  the  room,  a 
heavy  voluptuous  smell  in  which  the  odour  of  sandal- 
wood  mingled  with  the  pungency  of  myrrh.  It  was 
very  silent,  so  that  when  Grantham  mixed  a  drink  the 
pleasant  chink  of  glass  upon  glass  rang  out  sharply. 


II 

ZAHARA 

ZAHARA  had  overheard  the  latter  part  of  the 
conversation  from  her  own  apartment.  Once 
she  had  even  crept  across  to  the  carven  screen 
in  order  that  she  might  peep  through  into  the  big, 
softly  lighted  room.  She  had  interrupted  her  toilet 
to  do  so,  and  having  satisfied  herself  that  Grantham 
was  one  of  the  speakers  (although  she  had  really 
known  this  already),  she  had  returned  and  stared  at 
herself  critically  in  the  mirror. 

Zahara,  whose  father  had  been  a  Frenchman,  pos- 
sessed skin  of  a  subtle  cream  colour  very  far  removed 
from  the  warm  brown  of  her  Egyptian  mother,  but 
yet  not  white.  At  night  it  appeared  dazzling,  for  she 
enhanced  its  smooth,  creamy  pallor  with  a  wonderful 
liquid  solution  which  came  from  Paris.  It  was  hard, 
Zahara  had  learned,  to  avoid  a  certain  streaky  appear- 
ancex  but  much  practice  had  made  her  an  adept. 

This  portion  of  her  toilet  she  had  already  com- 
pleted and  studying  her  own  reflection  she  wondered, 
as  she  had  always  wondered,  what  Agapoulos  could 
see  in  Safiyeh.  Safiyeh  was  as  brown  as  a  berry; 
quite  pretty  for  an  Egyptian  girl,  as  Zahara  admitted 
scornfully,  but  brown — brown.  It  was  a  great  puzzle 

294 


THE  DANCE  OF  THE  VEILS          295 

to  Zahara.  The  mystery  of  life  indeed  had  puzzled 
little  Zahara  very  much  from  the  moment  when  she 
had  first  begun  to  notice  things  with  those  big,  sur- 
prising blue  eyes  of  hers,  right  up  to  the  present 
twenty-fourth  year  of  her  life.  She  had  an  uneasy 
feeling  that  Safiyeh,  who  was  only  sixteen,  knew  more 
of  this  mystery  than  she  did.  Once,  shortly  after  the 
Egyptian  girl  had  come  to  the  house  of  Agapoulos, 
Zahara  had  playfully  placed  her  round  white  arm 
against  that  of  the  more  dusky  beauty,  and : 

"Look!"  she  had  exclaimed.  "I  am  cream  and  you 
are  coffee." 

"It  is  true,"  the  other  had  admitted  in  her  prac- 
tical, serious  way,  "but  some  men  do  not  like  cream. 
All  men  like  coffee." 

Zahara  rested  her  elbows  upon  the  table  and  sur- 
veyed the  reflection  of  her  perfect  shoulders  with 
disapproval.  She  had  been  taught  at  her  mother's 
knee  that  men  did  not  understand  women,  and  she, 
who  had  been  born  and  reared  in  that  quarter  of 
Cairo  where  there  is  no  day  but  one  long  night,  had 
lived  to  learn  the  truth  of  the  lesson.  Yet  she  was 
not  surprised  that  this  was  so;  for  Zahara  did  not 
understand  herself.  Her  desires  were  so  simple  and 
so  seemingly  natural,  yet  it  would  appear  that  they 
were  contrary  to  the  established  order  of  things. 

She  was  proud  to  think  that  she  was  French,  al- 
though someone  had  told  her  that  the  French,  though 
brave,  were  mercenary.  Zahara  admired  the  French 
for  being  brave,  and  thought  it  very  sensible  that  they 
should  be  mercenary.  For  there  was  nothing  that 


296  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

Zahara  wanted  of  the  world  that  money  could  not  ob- 
tain (or  so  she  believed),  and  she  knew  no  higher 
philosophy  than  the  quest  of  happiness.  Because 
others  did  not  seem  to  share  this  philosophy  she  often 
wondered  if  she  could  be  unusual.  She  had  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  she  was  ignorant.  If  only  Harry 
Grantham  would  talk  to  her  she  felt  sure  he  could 
teach  her  so  much. 

"  There  were  so  many  things  that  puzzled  her.  She 
knew  that  at  twenty-four  she  was  young  for  a  French 
girl,  although  as  an  Egyptian  she  would  have  been 
considered  old.  She  had  been  taught  that  gold  was 
the  key  to  happiness  and  that  man  was  the  ogre 
from  whom  this  key  must  be  wheedled.  A  ready 
pupil,  Zahara  had  early  acquired  the  art  of  attracting, 
and  now  at  twenty-four  she  was  a  past  mistress  of  the 
Great  Craft,  and  as  her  mirror  told  her,  more  beauti- 
ful than  she  had  ever  been. 

Therefore,  what  did  Agapoulos  see  in  Safiyeh? 

It  was  a  problem  which  made  Zahara's  head  ache. 
She  could  not  understand  why  as  her  power  of  win- 
ning men  increased  her  power  to  hold  them  diminished. 
Safiyeh  was  a  mere  inexperienced  child — yet  Agapou- 
los had  brought  her  to  the  house,  and  Zahara,  wise  in 
woman's  lore,  had  recognized  the  familiar  change  of 
manner. 

It  was  a  great  problem,  the  age-old  problem  which 
doubtless  set  the  first  silver  thread  among  Phryne's 
red-gold  locks  and  which  now  brought  a  little  perplexed 
wrinkle  between  Zahara's  delicately  pencilled  brows. 

It  had  not  always  been  so.     In  those  early  days  in 


THE  DANCE  OF  THE  VEILS          297 

Cairo  there  had  been  an  American  boy.  Zahara  had 
never  forgotten.  Her  beauty  had  bewildered  him. 
He  had  wanted  to  take  her  to  New  York;  and  oh! 
how  she  had  wanted  to  go.  But  her  mother,  who  was 
then  alive,  had  held  other  views,  and  he  had  gone 
alone.  Heavens!  How  old  she  felt.  How  many 
had  come  and  gone  since  that  Egyptian  winter,  but 
now,  although  admiration  was  fatally  easy  to  win  how 
few  were  so  sincere  as  that  fresh-faced  boy  from  be- 
yond the  Atlantic. 

Zahara,  staring  into  the  mirror,  observed  that  there 
was  not  a  wrinkle  upon  her  face,  not  a  flaw  upon  her 
perfect  skin.  Nor  in  this  was  she  blinded  by  vanity. 
Nature,  indeed,  had  cast  her  in  a  rare  mould,  and 
from  her  unusual  hair,  which  was  like  dull  gold,  to  her 
slender  ankles  and  tiny  feet,  she  was  one  of  the  most 
perfectly  fashioned  human  beings  who  ever  added  to 
the  beauty  of  the  world. 

Yet  Agapoulos  preferred  Safiyeh.  Zahara  could 
hear  him  coming  to  her  room  even  as  she  sat  there, 
chin  in  hands,  staring  at  her  own  bewitching  reflec- 
tion. Presently  she  would  slip  out  and  speak  to 
Harry  Grantham.  Twice  she  had  read  in  his  eyes  that 
sort  of  interest  which  she  knew  so  well  how  to  detect. 
She  liked  him  very  much,  but  because  of  a  sense  of 
loyalty  to  Agapoulos  (a  sentiment  purely  Egyptian 
which  she  longed  to  crush)  Zahara  had  never  so  much 
as  glanced  at  Grantham  in  the  Right  Way.  She  was 
glad,  though,  that  he  had  not  gone,  and  she  hoped  that 
Agapoulos  would  not  detain  her  long. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  Greek's  manner  was  even 


298  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

more  cold  than  usual.  He  rested  his  hand  upon  her 
shoulder  for  a  moment,  and  meeting  her  glance  re- 
flected in  the  mirror: 

"There  will  be  a  lot  of  money  here  to-night,"  he 
said.  "Make  the  best  of  your  opportunities.  China- 
town is  foggy,  yes — but  it  pays  better  than  Port  Said." 

He  ran  fat  fingers  carelessly  through  her  hair,  the 
big  diamond  glittering  effectively  in  the  wavy  gold, 
then  turned  and  went  out.  Sitting  listening  intently, 
Zahara  could  hear  him  talking  in  a  subdued  voice  to 
Safiyeh,  and  could  detect  the  Egyptian's  low-spoken 

replies. 

***** 

Grantham  looked  up  with  a  start.  A  new  and 
subtle  perfume  had  added  itself  to  that  with  which  the 
air  of  the  room  was  already  laden.  He  found  Zahara 
standing  beside  him. 

His  glance  travelled  upward  from  a  pair  of  ab- 
surdly tiny  brocaded  shoes  past  slender  white  ankles 
to  the  embroidered  edge  of  a  wonderful  mandarin 
robe  decorated  with  the  figures  of  peacocks;  upward 
again  to  a  little  bejewelled  hand  which  held  the  robe 
confined  about  the  slender  figure  of  Zahara,  and  up- 
ward to  where,  sideways  upon  a  bare  shoulder  peeping 
impudently  out  from  Chinese  embroidery,  rested  the 
half-mocking  and  half-serious  face  of  the  girl. 

"Hallo!"  he  said,  smiling,  "I  didn't  hear  you  come 


in." 


"I  walk  very  soft,"  explained  Zahara,  "because  I 
am  not  supposed  to  be  here." 

She  looked  at  him  quizzically.     "I  don't  see  you 


THE  DANCE  OF  THE  VEILS          299 

for  a  long  time,"  she  added,  and  in  the  tone  of  her 
voice  there  was  a  caress.  "I  saw  you  more  often  in 
Port  Said  than  here." 

"No,"  replied  Grantham,  "I  have  been  giving  Aga- 
poulos  a  rest.  Besides,  there  has  been  nobody  worth 
while  at  any  of  the  hotels  or  clubs  during  the  last  fort- 
night." 

"Somebody  worth  while  coming  to-night  ?"  asked 
Zahara  with  professional  interest. 

At  the  very  moment  that  she  uttered  the  words  she 
recognized  her  error,  for  she  saw  Grantham's  expres- 
sion change.  Yet  to  her  strange  soul  there  was  a 
challenge  in  his  coldness  and  the  joy  of  contest  in  the 
task  of  melting  the  ice  of  this  English  reserve. 

"Lots  of  money,"  he  said  bitterly;  "we  shall  all  do 
well  to-night." 

Zahara  did  not  reply  for  a  moment.  She  wished 
to  close  this  line  of  conversation  which  inadvertently 
she  had  opened  up.  So  that,  presently: 

"You  look  very  lonely  and  bored,"  she  said  softly. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  she  who  was  bored  of 
the  life  she  led- in  Limehouse — in  chilly,  misty  Lime- 
house — and  who  had  grown  so  very  lonely  since 
Safiyeh  had  come.  In  the  dark  gray  eyes  looking 
up  at  her  she  read  recognition  of  her  secret.  Here 
was  a  man  possessing  that  rare  masculine  attribute, 
intuition.  Zahara  knew  a  fear  that  was  half  delight- 
ful. Fear  because  she  might  fail  in  either  of  two 
ways  and  delight  because  the  contest  was  equal. 

"Yes,"  he  replied  slowly,  "my  looks  tell  the  truth. 
How  did  you  know?" 


300  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

Zahara  observed  that  his  curiosity  had  not  yet  be- 
come actual  interest.  She  toyed  with  the  silken  tassel 
on  her  robe,  tying  and  untying  it  with  quick  nervous 
fingers  and  resting  the  while  against  the  side  of  the 
carved  chair. 

"Perhaps  because  I  am  so  lonely  myself,"  she  said. 
"I  matter  to  no  one.  What  I  do,  where  I  go,  if  I  live 
or  die.  It  is  all " 

She  spread  her  small  hands  eloquently  and  shrugged 
so  that  another  white  shoulder  escaped  from  the 
Chinese  wrapping.  Thereupon  Zahara  demurely 
drew  her  robe  about  her  with  a  naive  air  of  modesty 
which  nine  out  of  ten  beholding  must  have  supposed  to 
be  affected. 

In  reality  it  was  a  perfectly  natural,  instinctive 
movement.  To  Zahara  her  own  beauty  was  a  com- 
monplace to  be  displayed  or  concealed  as  circum- 
stances might  dictate.  In  a  certain  sense,  which  few 
could  appreciate,  this  half-caste  dancing  girl  and 
daughter  of  El  Wasr  was  as  innocent  as  a  baby.  It 
was  one  of  the  things  which  men  did  not  understand. 
She  thought  that  if  Harry  Grantham  asked  her  to  go 
away  with  him  it  would  be  nice  to  go.  Suddenly  she 
realized  how  deep  was  her  loathing  of  this  Limehouse 
and  of  the  people  she  met  there,  who  were  all  alike. 

He  sat  looking  at  her  for  some  time,  and  then: 
"Perhaps  you  are  wrong,"  he  said.  "There  may  be 
some  who  could  understand." 

And  because  he  had  answered  her  thoughts  rather 
than  her  words,  the  fear  within  Zahara  grew  greater 
than  the  joy  of  the  contest. 


THE  DANCE  OF  THE  VEILS          301 

Awhile  longer  she  stayed,  seeking  for  a  chink  in  the 
armour.  But  she  failed  to  kindle  the  light  in  his  eyes 
which- — unless  she  had  deluded  herself — she  had  seen 
there  in  the  past;  and  because  she  failed  and  could 
detect  no  note  of  tenderness  in  his  impersonal 
curiosity: 

"You  are  lonely  because  you  are  so  English,  so 
cold,"  she  exclaimed,  drawing  her  robe  about  her  and 
glancing  sideways  toward  the  door  by  which  Agapou- 
los  might  be  expected  to  enter.  "You  are  bored,  yes. 
Of  course.  You  look  on  at  life.  It  is  not  exciting, 
that  game — except  for  the  players." 

Never  once  had  she  looked  at  him  in  the  Right  Way; 
for  to  have  done  so  and  to  have  evoked  only  that 
amused  yet  compassionate  smile  would  have  meant 
hatred,  and  Zahara  had  been  taught  that  such  hatred 
was  fatal  because  it  was  a  confession  of  defeat. 

"I  shall  see  you  again  to-night,  shall  I  not?"  he  said 
as  she  turned  away. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  shall  be — on  show.  I  hope  you  will  ap- 
prove." 

She  tossed  her  head  like  a  petulant  child,  turned, 
and  with  never  another  glance  in  his  direction,  walked 
from  the  room.  She  was  very  graceful,  he  thought. 

Yet  it  was  not  entirely  of  this  strange  half-caste, 
whose  beauty  was  provoking,  although  he  resolutely 
repelled  her  tentative  advances,  that  Grantham  was 
thinking.  In  that  last  gesture  when  she  had  scorn- 
fully tossed  her  head  in  turning  aside,  had  lain  a  bitter 
memory.  Grantham  stood  for  a  moment  watching 
the  swaying  draperies.  Then,  dropping  the  end  of  his 


302  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

cigarette  into  a  little  brass  ash-tray,  he  took  up  his  hat, 
gloves,  and  cane  from  the  floor,  and  walked  toward 
the  doorway  through  which  he  had  entered. 

A  bell  rang  somewhere,  and  Grantham  paused.  A 
close  observer  might  have  been  puzzled  by  his  expres- 
sion. Evidently  changing  his  mind,  he  crossed  the 
room,  opened  the  door  and  went  out,  leaving  the 
house  of  Agapoulos  by  a  side  entrance.  Crossing  the 
little  courtyard  below  he  hurried  in  the  direction  of 
the  main  street,  seeming  to  doubt  the  shadows  which 
dusk  was  painting  in  the  narrow  ways. 

Many  men  who  know  Chinatown  distrust  its  shad- 
ows, but  the  furtive  fear  of  which  Grantham  had  be- 
come aware  was  due  not  to  anticipation  but  to  memory 
— to  a  memory  conjured  up  by  that  gesture  of  Za- 
hara's. 

There  were  few  people  in  London  or  elsewhere  who 
knew  the  history  of  this  scallywag  Englishman.  That 
he  had  held  the  King's  commission  at  some  time  was 
generally  assumed  to  be  the  fact,  but  that  his  real 
name  was  not  Grantham  equally  was  taken  for 
granted.  His  continuing,  nevertheless,  to  style  him- 
self "Major"  was  sufficient  evidence  to  those  inter- 
ested that  Grantham  lived  by  his  wits;  and  from  the 
fact  that  he  lived  well  and  dressed  well  one  might  have 
deduced  that  his  wits  were  bright  if  his  morals  were 
turbid. 

Now,  the  gesture  of  a  woman  piqued  had  called  up 
the  deathless  past.  Hurrying  through  nearly  empty 
squalid  streets,  he  found  himself  longing  to  pronounce 
a  name,  to  hear  it  spoken  that  he  might  linger  over  its 


THE  DANCE  OF  THE  VEILS          303 

bitter  sweetness.  To  this  longing  he  presently  suc- 
cumbed, and: 

"Inez,"  he  whispered,  and  again  more  loudly, 
"Inez." 

Such  a  wave  of  lonely  wretchedness  and  remorse 
swept  up  about  his  heart  that  he  was  almost  over- 
whelmed by  it,  yet  he  resigned  himself  to  its  ruthless 
cruelty  with  a  sort  of  savage  joy.  The  shadowed 
ways  of  Limehouse  ceased  to  exist  for  him,  and  in 
spirit  he  stood  once  more  in  a  queer,  climbing,  sun- 
bathed street  of  Gibraltar  looking  out  across  that  blue 
ribbon  of  the  Straits  to  where  the  African  coast  lay 
hidden  in  the  haze. 

"I  never  knew,"  he  said  aloud.  And  one  meeting 
this  man  who  hurried  along  and  muttered  to  himself 
must  have  supposed  him  to  be  mad.  "I  never  knew. 
Oh,  God!  if  I  had  only  known." 

But  he  was  one  of  those  to  whom  knowledge  comes 
as  a  bitter  aftermath.  When  his  regiment  had  re- 
ceived orders  to  move  from  the  Rock,  and  he  had  in- 
formed Inez  of  his  departure,  she  had  turned  aside, 
just  as  Zahara  had  done;  scornfully  and  in  silence. 
Because  of  his  disbelief  in  her  he  had  guarded  his 
heart  against  this  beautiful  Spanish  girl  who  (as  he 
realized  too  late)  had  brought  him  the  only  real  hap- 
piness he  had  ever  known.  Often  she  had  told  him  of 
her  brother,  Miguel,  who  would  kill  her — would  kill 
them  both — if  he  so  much  as  suspected  their  meetings ; 
of  her  affianced  husband,  absent  in  Tunis,  whose  jeal- 
ousy knew  no  bounds. 

He  had  pretended  to  believe,  had  even  wanted  to 


3o4  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

believe  ;but  the  witchery  of  the  girl's  presence  removed, 
he  had  laughed — at  himself  and  at  Inez.  She  was 
playing  the  Great  Game,  skilfully,  exquisitely.  When 
he  was  gone — there  would  soon  be  someone  else. 
Yet  he  had  never  told  her  that  he  doubted.  He  had 
promised  many  things — and  had  left  her. 

She  died  by  her  own  hand  on  the  night  of  his  de- 
parture. 

Now,  as  a  wandering  taxi  came  into  view:  "Inez!" 
he  moaned — "I  never  knew." 

That  brother  whom  he  had  counted  a  myth  had  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  on  board  the  transport.  Before 
Grantham's  inner  vision  the  whole  dreadful  scene  now 
*vas  reenacted:  the  struggle  in  the  stateroom;  he  even 
seemed  to  hear  the  sound  of  the  shot,  to  see  the  Span- 
iard, drenched  with  blood  from  a  wound  in  his  fore- 
head, to  hear  his  cry: 

"I  cannot  see!  I  cannot  see!  Mother  of  Mercy! 
I  have  lost  my  sight!" 

It  had  broken  Grantham.  The  scandal  was  hushed 
up,  but  retirement  was  inevitable.  He  knew,  too,  that 
the  light  had  gone  out  of  the  world  for  him  as  it  had 
gone  for  Miguel  da  Mura. 

It  is  sometimes  thus  that  a  scallywag  is  made. 


IV 

THE  STAR  OF  EGYPT 

A"  GRANTHAM  went  out  by  the  side  door,  Has- 
san, soft  of  foot,  appeared.  Crossing  to  the 
main  door  he  opened  it  and  walked  down  the 
narrow  corridor  beyond.  Presently  came  the  tap, 
tap,  tap  of  a  stick  and  a  sound  of  muttered  conversa- 
tion in  some  place  below. 

Hassan  reentered  and  went  in  through  the  curtained 
doorway  to  summon  Agapoulos.  Agapoulos  was 
dressing  and  would  not  be  disturbed.  Hassan  went 
back  to  those  who  waited,  but  ere  long  returned  again 
chattering  volubly  to  himself.  Going  behind  the  car- 
ven  screen  he  rapped  upon  the  door  of  Zahara's  room, 
and  she  directed  him  to  come  in.  To  Zahara,  Hassan 
was  no  more  than  a  piece  of  furniture,  and  she  thought 
as  little  of  his  intruding  while  she  was  in  the  midst  of 
her  toilet  as  another  woman  would  have  thought  of 
the  entrance  of  a  maid. 

"Two  men,"  reported  Hassan,  "who  won't  go  away 
until  they  see  somebody." 

"Whom  do  they  want  to  see?"  she  inquired  indiffer- 
ently, adjusting  the  line  of  her  eyebrow  with  an  artisti- 
cally pointed  pencil. 

"They  say  whoever  belongs  here." 

305 


306  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

Zahara  invariably  spoke  either  French  or  English 
to  natives,  and  if  Hassan  had  addressed  her  in  Arabic 
she  would  not  have  replied,  although  she  spoke  that 
language  better  than  she  spoke  any  other. 

"What  are  they  like?     Not— police?" 

"Foreign,"  replied  Hassan  vaguely. 

"English — American  ?" 

"No,  not  American  or  English.  Very  black  hair, 
dark  skin." 

Zahara,  a  student  of  men,  became  aware  of  a  mild 
interest.  These  swarthy  visitors  should  prove  an 
agreeable  antidote  to  the  poisonous  calm  of  Harry 
Grantham.  She  was  trying  with  all  the  strength  of 
her  strange,  stifled  soul  not  to  think  of  Grantham, 
and  she  was  incapable  of  recognizing  the  fact  that  she 
could  think  of  nothing  else  and  had  thought  of  little 
else  for  a  long  time  past.  Even  now  it  was  because 
of  him  that  she  determined  to  interview  the  foreign 
visitors.  The  mystery  of  her  emotions  puzzled  her 
more  than  ever. 

She  descended  to  a  small,  barely  furnished  room 
on  the  ground  floor,  close  beside  the  door  opening 
upon  the  street.  It  was  lighted  by  one  hanging  lamp. 
On  the  divan  which  constituted  the  principal  item  of 
furniture  a  small  man,  slenderly  built,  was  sitting. 
He  wore  a  broad-brimmed  hat,  so  broad  of  brim  that 
it  threw  the  whole  of  the  upper  part  of  his  face  into 
shadow.  It  was  impossible  to  see  his  eyes.  Beside 
him  rested  a  heavy  walking-stick. 

As  Zahara  entered,  a  wonderful,  gaily  coloured 
figure,  this  man  did  not  move  in  the  slightest,  but  sat, 


THE  DANCE  OF  THE  VEILS          307 

chin  on  breast,  his  small,  muscular,  brown  hands  rest- 
ing on  his  knees.  His  companion,  however,  a  person 
of  more  massive  build,  elegantly  dressed  and  hand- 
some in  a  swarthy  fashion,  bowed  gravely  and  re- 
moved his  hat.  Zahara  liked  his  eyes,  which  were 
dark  and  very  bold  looking. 

"M.  Agapoulos  is  engaged,"  she  said,  speaking  in 
French.  "What  is  it  you  wish  to  know?" 

The  man  regarded  her  fixedly,  and: 

"Senorita,"  he  replied,  "I  will  be  frank  with  you." 

Save  for  his  use  of  the  word  "sefiorita"  he  also 
spoke  in  French.  Zahara  drew  her  robe  more  closely 
about  her  and  adopted  her  most  stately  manner. 

"My  name,"  continued  the  other,  "does  not  matter, 
but  my  business  is  to  look  into  the  affairs  of  other  peo- 
ple, you  understand?" 

Zahara,  who  understood  from  this  that  the  man  was 
some  kind  of  inquiry  agent,  opened  her  blue  eyes  very 
widely  and  at  the  same  time  shook  her  head. 

"No,"  she  protested;  "what  do  you  mean?" 

"A  certain  gentleman  came  here  a  short  time  ago, 
came  into  this  house  and  must  be  here  now.  Don't 
be  afraid.  He  has  done  nothing  very  dreadful,"  he 
added  reassuringly. 

Zahara  retreated  a  step,  and  a  little  wrinkle  of  dis- 
approval appeared  between  her  pencilled  brows.  She 
no  longer  liked  the  man's  eyes,  she  decided.  They 
were  deceitful  eyes.  His  companion  had  taken  up 
the  heavy  stick  and  was  restlessly  tapping  the  floor. 

"There  is  no  one  here,"  said  Zahara  calmly,  "ex- 
cept the  people  who  live  in  the  house." 


308  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"He  is  here,  he  is  here,"  muttered  the  man  seated 
on  the  divan. 

The  tapping  of  his  stick  had  grown  more  rapid, 
but  as  he  had  spoken  in  Spanish,  Zahara,  who  was 
ignorant  of  that  language,  had  no  idea  what  he  had 
said. 

"My  friend,"  continued  the  Spaniard,  bowing 
slightly  in  the  direction  of  the  slender  man  who  so 
persistently  kept  his  broad-brimmed  hat  on  his  head, 
"chanced  to  hear  the  voice  of  this  gentleman  as  he 
spoke  to  your  porter  on  entering  the  door.  And  al- 
though the  door  was  closed  too  soon  for  us  actually 
to  see  him,  we  are  convinced  that  he  is  the  person  we 
seek." 

"I  think  you  are  mistaken,"  said  Zahara  coolly. 
"But  what  do  you  want  him  for?" 

As  she  uttered  the  words  she  realized  that  even 
the  memory  of  Grantham  was  sufficient  to  cause  her 
to  betray  herself.  She  had  betrayed  her  interest  to 
the  man  himself,  and  now  she  had  betrayed  it  to  this 
dark-faced  stranger  whose  manner  was  so  mysterious. 
The  Spaniard  recognized  the  fact,  and,  unlike  Gran- 
tham, acted  upon  it  promptly. 

"He  has  taken  away  the  wife  of  another,  Sefiorita," 
he  said  simply,  and  watched  her  as  he  spoke  the 
lie. 

She  listened  in  silence,  wide-eyed.  Her  lower  lip 
twitched,  and  she  bit  it  fiercely. 

"He  went  first  to  Port  Said  and  then  came  to  Lon- 
don with  this  woman,"  continued  the  Spaniard  re- 
morselessly. "We  come  from  her  husband  to  ask  her 


THE  DANCE  OF  THE  VEILS          309 

to  return.  Yes,  he  will  forgive  her — or  he  offers  her 
freedom." 

Rapidly  but  comprehensively  the  speaker's  bold 
glance  travelled  over  Zahara,  from  her  golden  head  to 
her  tiny  embroidered  shoes. 

"If  you  can  help  us  in  this  matter  it  will  be  worth 
fifty  English  pounds  to  you,"  he  concluded. 

Zahara  was  breathing  rapidly.  The  fatal  hatred 
which  she  had  sought  to  stifle  gained  a  new  vitality. 
Another  woman — another  woman  actually  here  in 
London!  So  there  was  someone  upon  whom  he  did 
not  look  in  that  half-amused  and  half-compassionate 
manner.  How  she  hated  him !  How  she  hated  the 
woman  to  whom  he  had  but  a  moment  ago  returned! 

"Then  he  will  marry  this  other  one?"  she  said  sud- 
denly. 

"Oh,  no.  Already  he  neglects  her.  We  think  she 
will  go  back." 

Zahara  experienced  a  swift  change  of  sentiment. 
She  seemed  to  be  compounded  of  two  separate  per- 
sons, one  of  whom  laughed  cruelly  at  the  folly  of  the 
other. 

"What  is  the  name  of  this  man  you  think  your  friend 
has  recognized?"  she  asked. 

The  big  stick  was  rapping  furiously  during  this 
colloquy. 

"We  are  both  sure,  Sefiorita.  His  name  is  Major 
Spalding." 

That  Spalding  and  Grantham  were  neighbouring 
towns  in  Lincolnshire  Zahara  did  not  know,  but : 

"No  one  of  that  name  comes  here,"  she  replied. 


310  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"The  one  you  heard  and — who  has  gone — is  not  called 
by  that  name."  She  spoke  with  forced  calm.  It  was 
Grantham  they  sought!  "But  what  happens  if  I 
show  you  this  one  who  is  not  called  Spalding?" 

"No  matter!  Point  him  out  to  me,"  answered  the 
Spaniard  eagerly — and  his  dark  eyes  seemed  to  be  on 
fire — "point  him  out  to  me  and  fifty  pounds  of  English 
money  is  yours !" 

"Let  me  see." 

He  drew  out  a  wallet  and  held  up  a  number  of  notes. 

"Fifty,"  he  said,  in  a  subdued  voice,  "when  you 
point  him  out." 

For  a  long  moment  Zahara  hesitated,  then: 

"Sixty,"  she  corrected  him — "now!  Then  I  will 
do  it  to-night — if  you  tell  what  happens." 

Exhibiting  a  sort  of  eager  impatience  the  man  dis- 
played a  bunch  of  official-looking  documents. 

"I  give  him  these,"  he  explained,  "and  my  work  is 
done." 

"H'm,"  said  Zahara.  "He  must  not  know  that 
it  is  I  who  have  shown  him  to  you.  To-night  he  will 
be  here  at  nine  o'clock,  and  I  shall  dance.  You  under- 
stand?" 

"Then,"  said  the  Spaniard  eagerly,  "this  is  what 
you  will  do." 

And  speaking  close  to  her  ear  he  rapidly  outlined 
a  plan ;  but  presently  she  interrupted  him. 

"Pooh!  It  is  Spanish,  the  rose.  I  dance  the 
dances  of  Egypt." 

"But  to-night,"  he  persisted,  "it  will  not  matter." 

Awhile  longer  they  talked,  the  rapping  of  the  stick 


THE  DANCE  OF  THE  VEILS          311 

upon  the  tiled  floor  growing  ever  faster  and  faster. 
But  finally : 

"I  will  tell  Hassan  that  you  are  to  be  admitted," 
said  Zahara,  and  she  held  out  her  hand  for  the  notes. 

When,  presently,  the  visitors  departed,  she  learned 
that  the  smaller  man  was  blind;  for  his  companion  led 
him  out  of  the  room  and  out  of  the  house.  She  stood 
awhile  listening  to  the  tap,  tap,  tap  of  the  heavy  stick 
receding  along  the  street.  What  she  did  not  hear, 
and  could  not  have  understood  had  she  heard,  since  it 
was  uttered  in  Spanish,  was  the  cry  of  exultant  ha- 
tred which  came  from  the  lips  of  the  taller  man : 

"At  last,  Miguel!  at  last!     Though  blind,  you  have 

found  him!     You  have  not  failed.     /  shall  not  fail!" 

***** 

Zahara  peeped  through  the  carved  screen  at  the  as- 
sembled company.  They  were  smoking  and  drinking 
and  seemed  to  be  in  high  good  humour.  Safiyeh  had 
danced  and  they  had  applauded  the  performance,  but 
had  complained  to  M.  Agapoulos  that  they  had  seen 
scores  of  such  dances  and  dancers.  Safiyeh,  who  had 
very  little  English,  had  not  understood  this,  and  be- 
cause presently  she  was  to  play  upon  the  a'ood  while 
Zahara  danced  the  Dance  of  the  Veils,  Zahara  had 
avoided  informing  her  of  the  verdict  of  the  company. 

Now  as  she  peeped  through  the  lattice  in  the  screen 
she  could  see  the  Greek  haggling  with  Grantham  and 
a  tall  gray-haired  man  whom  she  supposed  to  be  Sir 
Horace  Tipton.  They  were  debating  the  additional 
fees  to  be  paid  if  Zahara,  the  Star  of  Egypt,  was  to 
present  the  secret  and  wonderful  dance  of  which  all 


3 1 2  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

men  had  heard  but  which  only  a  true  daughter  of  the 
ancient  tribe  of  the  Ghawazi  could  perform. 

Sometimes  Zahara  was  proud  of  her  descent  from  a 
dancing-girl  of  Kenneh.  This  was  always  at  night, 
when  a  sort  of  barbaric  excitement  possessed  her 
which  came  from  the  blood  of  her  mother.  Then,  a 
new  light  entered  her  eyes  and  they  seemed  to  grow 
long  and  languid  and  dark,  so  that  no  one  would  have 
suspected  that  in  daylight  they  were  blue. 

A  wild  pagan  abandon  claimed  her,  and  she  seemed 
to  hear  the  wailing  of  reed  instruments  and  the  throb 
of  the  ancient  drums  which  were  played  of  old  before 
the  kings  of  Egypt.  Safiyeh  was  not  a  true  dancing- 
girl,  and  because  she  knew  none  of  those  fine  frenzies, 
she  danced  without  inspiration,  like  a  brown  puppet 
moved  by  strings.  But  she  could  play  upon  an  a'ood 
much  better  than  Zahara,  and  therefore  must  not  be 
upset  until  she  had, played  for  the  Dance  of  the  Veils. 

Seeing  that  the  bargain  was  all  but  concluded, 
Zahara  stole  back  to  her  room.  Her  lightly  clad  body 
gleamed  like  that  of  some  statue  become  animate. 

Her  cheeks  flushed  as  she  took  up  the  veils,  of 
which  she  alone  knew  the  symbolic  meaning;  the  white 
veil,  the  purple  veil:  each  had  its  story  to  tell  her; 
and  the  veil  of  burning  scarlet. 

In  a  corner  of  the  big  room  on  a  divan  near  the 
door  she  had  seen  the  Spaniard,  a  handsome,  swarthy 
figure  in  his  well-fitting  dress  clothes,  and  now,  open- 
ing a  drawer,  she  glanced  at  the  little  pile  of  notes 
which  represented  her  share  of  the  bargain.  There 
were  fifty.  She  had  told  Agapoulos  that  a  distin- 


THE  DANCE  OF  THE  VEILS          313 

guished  foreigner  with  an  introduction  from  someone 
she  knew  had  paid  ten  pounds  to  be  present.  And 
because  she  had  given  Agapoulos  the  ten  pounds, 
Agapoulos  had  agreed  to  admit  the  visitor. 

She  could  hear  the  Greek  approaching  now,  but 
she  was  thinking  of  Grantham  whom  she  had  last  seen 
in  laughing  conversation  with  the  tall,  gray-haired 
man.  His  laughter  had  appeared  forced.  Doubtless 
he  grew  weary  of  the  woman  he  had  brought  to 
London. 

"Dance  to-night  with  all  the  devil  that  is  in  you, 
my  beautiful,"  said  Agapoulos,  hurrying  into  the  room. 

Zahara  turned  aside,  toying  with  the  veils. 

"They  are  rich,  eh?"  she  said  indifferently. 

She  was  thinking  of  the  fifty  pounds  which  she  had 
earned  so  easily;  and  after  all  (how  strangely  her 
mind  wandered)  perhaps  he  was  really  tired  of  the 
woman.  The  Spaniard  had  said  so. 

"Very  rich,"  murmured  Agapoulos  complacently. 

He  brushed  his  moustache  and  rattled  keys  in  his 
pocket.  In  his  dress  clothes  he  looked  like  the  man- 
ager of  a  prosperous  picture  palace.  "Safiyeh!"  he 
called. 

When  presently  the  music  commenced,  the  players 
concealed  behind  the  tall  screen,  an  expectant  hush 
fell  upon  the  wine-flushed  company.  Hassan,  who 
played  the  darabukkeh,  could  modulate  its  throbbing 
so  wonderfully. 

Zahara  entered  the  room,  enveloped  from  shoulders 
to  ankles  in  a  flame-coloured  cloak.  Between  her  lips 
she  held  a  red  rose. 


3i4  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"By  God,  what  a  beauty!"  said  a  husky  voice. 

Zahara  did  not  know  which  of  the  party  had 
spoken,  but  she  was  conscious  of  the  fact  that  by  virtue 
of  the  strange  witchcraft  which  became  hers  on  such 
nights  she  held  them  all  spell-bound.  They  were  her 
slaves. 

Slowly  she  walked  across  the  apartment  while  the 
throbbing  of  the  Arab  drum  grew  softer  and  softer, 
producing  a  weird  effect  of  space  and  distance.  All 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  her,  and  meeting  Grantham's 
gaze  she  saw  at  last  the  Light  there  which  she  knew. 
This  sudden  knowledge  of  triumph  almost  unnerved 
her,  and  the  rose  which  she  had  taken  from  between 
her  lips  trembled  in  her  white  fingers.  Two  of  the 
petals  fell  upon  the  carpet,  which  was  cream-coloured 
from  the  looms  of  Ispahan.  Like  blood  spots  the 
petals  lay  upon  the  cream  surface. 

Zahara  swung  sharply  about.  Agapoulos,  seated 
alone  in  the  chair  over  which  he  had  draped  the 
leopard  skin,  was  busily  brushing  his  moustache  and 
glancing  sideways  toward  the  screen  which  concealed 
Safiyeh.  Zahara  tilted  her  head  on  to  her  shoulder 
and  cast  a  languorous  glance  into  the  shadows  mask- 
ing the  watchful  Spaniard. 

She  could  see  his  eyes  gleaming  like  those  of  a  wild 
beast.  An  icy  finger  seemed  to  touch  her  heart.  He 
had  lied  to  her!  She  knew  it,  suddenly,  intuitively. 
Well,  she  would  see.  She  also  had  guile. 

With  a  little  scornful  laugh  Zahara  tossed  the  rose 
on  to  the  knees — of  Agapoulos. 

The  sound  of  three  revolver  shots  fired  in  quick 


THE  DANCE  OF  THE  VEILS  3 1 5 

succession  rang  out  above  the  throbbing  music. 
Agapoulos  clutched  at  his  shirt  front  with  both  hands, 
uttered  a  stifled  scream  and  tried  to  stand  up.  He 
coughed,  and  glaring  straight  in  front  of  him  fell 
forward  across  a  little  coffee  table  laden  with  cham- 
pagne bottles  and  glasses. 

Coincident  with  the  crash  made  by  his  falling  body 
came  the  loud  bang  of  a  door.  The  Spaniard  had 
gone. 

uBy  God,  sir!  It's  murder,  it's  murder!"  cried 
the  same  husky  voice  which  had  commented  upon  the 
beauty  of  Zahara. 

There  was  a  mingling,  purposeless  movement. 
Someone  ran  to  the  door — to  find  that  it  was  locked 
from  the  outside.  Mr.  Eddie,  now  recognizable  by 
his  accent,  came  toward  the  prone  man,  dazed,  horri- 
fied, and  grown  very  white.  Zahara,  a  beautiful, 
tragic  figure,  in  her  flaming  cloak,  stood  looking  down 
at  the  dead  man.  Safiyeh  was  peeping  round  from 
behind  the  screen,  her  face  a  brown  mask  of  terror. 
Hassan,  holding  his  drum,  appeared  behind  her,  star- 
ing stupidly.  To  the  smell  of  cigar  smoke  and  per- 
fume a  new  and  acrid  odour  was  added. 

Vaguely  the  truth  was  stealing  in  upon  the  mind 
of  the  dancing-girl  that  she  had  been  made  party  to  a 
plot  to  murder  Grantham.  She  had  saved  his  life. 
He  belonged  to  her  now.  She  could  hear  him  speak- 
ing, although  for  some  reason  she  could  not  see  him. 
A  haze  had  come,  blotting  out  everything  but  the  still, 
ungainly  figure  which  lay  so  near  her  upon  the  carpet, 
one  clutching,  fat  hand,  upon  which  a  diamond  glit- 


3 1 6  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

tered,  outstretched  so  that  it  nearly  touched  her  bare 
white  feet. 

"We  must  get  out  this  way!  The  side  door  to  the 
courtyard !  None  of  us  can  afford  to  be  mixed  up  in 
an  affair  of  this  sort." 

There  was  more  confused  movement  and  a  buzz  of 
excited  voices — meaningless,  chaotic.  Zahara  could 
feel  the  draught  from  the  newly  opened  door.  A  thin 
stream  of  blood  was  stealing  across  the  carpet.  It 
had  almost  reached  the  fallen  rose  petals,  which  it 
strangely  resembled  in  colour  under  the  light  of  the 
lanterns. 

As  though  dispersed  by  the  draught,  the  haze  lifted, 
and  Zahara  saw  Grantham  standing  by  the  open  door- 
way through  which  he  had  ushered  out  the  other 
visitors. 

Wide-eyed  and  piteous  she  met  his  glance.  She 
had  seen  that  night  the  Look  in  his  eyes.  She  had 
saved  his  life,  and  there  was  much,  so  much,  that  she 
wanted  to  tell  him.  A  thousand  yearnings,  inexplic- 
able, hitherto  unknown,  deep  mysteries  of  her  soul, 
looked  out  of  those  great  eyes. 

"Don't  think,"  he  said  tensely,  "that  I  was  deceived. 
I  saw  the  trick  with  the  rose !  You  are  as  guilty  as 
your  villainous  lover!  Murderess!" 

He  went  out  and  closed  the  door.  The  flame- 
coloured  cloak  slowly  slipped  from  Zahara's  shoulders, 
and  the  veils,  like  falling  petals,  began  to  drop  gently 
one  by  one  upon  the  blood-stained  carpet. 


THE  HAND  OF  THE  MANDARIN  QUONG 


THE  HAND  OF  THE  MANDARIN  QUONG 

I 

THE  SHADOW  ON  THE   CURTAIN 

SINGAPORE  is  by  no  means  herself  again,"  de- 
clared Jennings,  looking  about  the  lounge  of  the 
Hotel  de  1'Europe.  "Don't  you  agree,  Knox?" 

Burton  fixed  his  lazy  stare  upon  the  speaker. 

"Don't  blame  poor  old  Singapore,"  he  said.  "There 
is  no  spot  in  this  battered  world  that  I  have  succeeded 
in  discovering  which  is  not  changed  for  the  worse." 

Dr.  Matheson  flicked  ash  from  his  cigar  and  smiled 
in  that  peculiarly  happy  manner  which  characterizes  a 
certain  American  type  and  which  lent  a  boyish  charm 
to  his  personality. 

"You  are  a  pair  of  pessimists,"  he  pronounced. 
"For  some  reason  best  known  to  themselves  Jennings 
and  Knox  have  decided  upon  a  Busman's  Holiday. 
Very  well.  Why  grumble?" 

"You  are  quite  right,  Doctor,"  Jennings  admitted. 
"When  I  was  on  service  here  in  the  Straits  Settlements 
I  declared  heaven  knows  how  often  that  the  country 
would  never  see  me  again  once  I  was  demobbed.  Yet 
here  you  see  I  am;  Burton  belongs  here;  but  here's 
Knox,  and  we  are  all  as  fed  up  as  we  can  be!" 

319 


320  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"Yes,"  said  Burton  slowly.  "I  may  be  a  bit  tired 
of  Singapore.  It's  a  queer  thing,  though,  that  you 
fellows  have  drifted  back  here  again.  The  call  of 
the  East  is  no  fable.  It's  a  call  that  one  hears  for 


ever." 


The  conversation  drifted  into  another  channel,  and 
all  sorts  of  topics  were  discussed,  from  racing  to  the 
latest  feminine  fashions,  from  ballroom  dances  to  the 
merits  and  demerits  of  coalition  government.  Then 
suddenly : 

"What  became  of  Adderley?"  asked  Jennings. 

There  were  several  men  in  the  party  who  had  been 
cronies  of  ours  during  the  time  that  we  were  stationed 
in  Singapore,  and  at  Jennings's  words  a  sort  of  hush 
seemed  to  fall  on  those  who  had  known  Adderley.  I 
cannot  say  if  Jennings  noticed  this,  but  it  was  per- 
fectly evident  to  me  that  Dr.  Matheson  had  perceived 
it,  for  he  glanced  swiftly  across  in  my  direction  in  an 
oddly  significant  way. 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Burton,  who  was  an 
engineer.  "He  was  rather  an  unsavoury  sort  of  char- 
acter in  some  ways,  but  I  heard  that  he  came  to  a 
sticky  end." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  asked  with  curiosity,  for 
I  myself  had  often  wondered  what  had  become  of 
Adderley. 

"Well,  he  was  reported  to  his  C.  O.,  or  something, 
wasn't  he,  just  before  the  time  for  his  demobilization? 
I  don't  know  the  particulars;  I  thought  perhaps  you 
did,  as  he  was  in  your  regiment." 

"I  have  heard  nothing  whatever  about  it,"  I  replied. 


HAND  OF  MANDARIN  QUONG        321 

"You  mean  Sidney  Adderley,  the  man  who  was  so 
indecently  rich?"  someone  interjected.  "Had  a  place 
at  Katong,  and  was  always  talking  about  his  father's 
millions?" 

"That's  the  fellow." 

"Yes,"  said  Jennings,  "there  was  some  scandal,  I 
know,  but  it  was  after  my  time  here." 

"Something  about  an  old  mandarin  out  Johore 
Bahru  way,  was  it  not?"  asked  Burton.  "The  last 
thing  I  heard  about  Adderley  was  that  he  had  dis- 
appeared." 

"Nobody  would  have  cared  much  if  he  had,"  de- 
clared Jennings.  "I  know  of  several  who  would  have 
been  jolly  glad.  There  was  a  lot  of  the  brute  about 
Adderley,  apart  from  the  fact  that  he  had  more  money 
than  was  good  for  him.  His  culture  was  a  veneer. 
It  was  his  check-book  that  spoke  all  the  time." 

"Everybody  would  have  forgiven  Adderley  his 
vulgarity,"  said  Dr.  Matheson,  quietly,  "if  the  man's 
heart  had  been  in  the  right  place." 

"Surely  an  instance  of  trying  to  make  a  silk  purse 
out  of  a  sow's  ear,"  someone  murmured. 

Burton  gazed  rather  hard  at  the  last  speaker. 

"So  far  as  I  am  aware,"  he  said,  "the  poor  devil 
is  dead,  so  go  easy." 

"Are  you  sure  he  is  dead?"  asked  Dr.  Matheson, 
glancing  at  Burton  in  that  quizzical,  amused  way  of 
his. 

"No,  I  am  not  sure;  I  am  merely  speaking  from 
hearsay.  And  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  the  informa- 
tion was  rather  vague.  But  I  gathered  that  he  had 


322  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

vanished,  at  any  rate,  and  remembering  certain  earlier 
episodes  in  his  career,  I  was  led  to  suppose  that  this 
vanishing  meant " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  significantly. 

"You  mean  the  old  mandarin?"  suggested  Dr. 
Matheson. 

"Yes." 

"Was  there  really  anything  in  that  story,  or  was  it 
suggested  by  the  unpleasant  reputation  of  Adderley?" 
Jennings  asked. 

"I  can  settle  any  doubts  upon  that  point,"  said  I; 
whereupon  I  immediately  became  a  focus  of  general 
attention. 

"What!  were  you  ever  at  that  place  of  Adderley's 
at  Katong?"  asked  Jennings  with  intense  curiosity. 

I  nodded,  lighting  a  fresh  cigarette  in  a  manner  that 
may  have  been  unduly  leisurely. 

"Did  you  see  her?" 

Again  I  nodded. 

"Really!" 

"I  must  have  been  peculiarly  favoured,  but  certainly 
I  had  that  pleasure." 

"You  speak  of  seeing  her,"  said  one  of  the  party, 
now  entering  the  conversation  for  the  first  time.  "To 
whom  do  you  refer?" 

"Well,"  replied  Burton,  "it's  really  a  sort  of  fairy 
tale — unless  Knox" — glacing  across  in  my  direction — 
"can  confirm  it.  But  there  was  a  story  current  during 
the  latter  part  of  Adderley's  stay  in  Singapore  to  the 
effect  that  he  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  wife, 
or  some  member  of  the  household,  of  an  old  gentleman 


HAND  OF  MANDARIN  QUONG        323 

out  Johore  Bahru  way — sort  of  mandarin  or  big  pot 
among  the  Chinks." 

"It  was  rumoured  that  he  had  bolted  with  her," 
added  another  speaker. 

"I  think  it  was  more  than  a  rumour." 

"Why  do  you  say  so?" 

"Well,  representations  were  made  to  the  authori- 
ties, I  know  for  an  absolute  certainty,  and  I  have  an 
idea  that  Adderley  was  kicked  out  of  the  Service  as  a 
consequence  of  the  scandal  which  resulted." 

"How  is  it  one  never  heard  of  this?" 

"Money  speaks,  my  dear  fellow,"  cried  Burton, 
"even  when  it  is  possessed  by  such  a  peculiar  out- 
sider as  Adderley.  The  thing  was  hushed  up.  It 
was  a  very  nasty  business.  But  Knox  was  telling  us 
that  he  had  actually  seen  the  lady.  Please  carry  on, 
Knox,  for  I  must  admit  that  I  am  intensely  curious." 

"I  can  only  say  that  I  saw  her  on  one  occasion." 

"With  Adderley?" 

"Undoubtedly." 

"Where?" 

"At  his  place  at  Katong." 

"I  even  thought  his  place  at  that  resort  was  some- 
thing of  a  myth,"  declared  Jennings.  "He  never 
asked  me  to  go  there,  but,  then,  I  took  that  as  a 
compliment.  Pardon  the  apparent  innuendo,  Knox," 
he  added,  laughing.  "But  you  say  you  actually  visited 
the  establishment?" 

"Yes,"  I  replied  slowly,  "I  met  him  here  in  this 
very  hotel  one  evening  in  the  winter  of  '15,  after  the 
natives'  attempt  to  mutiny.  He  had  been  drinking 


324  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

rather  heavily,  a  fact  which  he  was  quite  unable  to 
disguise.  He  was  never  by  any  means  a  real  friend 
of  mine;  in  fact,  I  doubt  that  he  had  a  true  friend  in 
the  world.  Anyhow,  I  could  see  that  he  was  lonely, 
and  as  I  chanced  to  be  at  a  loose  end  I  accepted  an 
invitation  to  go  over  to  what  he  termed  his  'little  place 
at  Katong.' 

"His  little  place  proved  to  be  a  veritable  palace. 
The  man  privately,  or  rather,  secretly,  to  be  exact, 
kept  up  a  sort  of  pagan  state.  He  had  any  number  of 
servants.  Of  course  he  became  practically  a  million- 
aire after  the  death  of  his  father,  as  you  will  re- 
member; and  given  more  congenial  company,  I  must 
confess  that  I  might  have  spent  a  most  enjoyable  even- 
ing there. 

"Adderley  insisted  upon  priming  me  with  cham- 
pagne, and  after  a  while  I  may  as  well  admit  that  I 
lost  something  of  my  former  reserve,  and  began  in  a 
fashion  to  feel  that  I  was  having  a  fairly  good  time. 
By  the  way,  my  host  was  not  quite  frankly  drunk. 
He  got  into  that  objectionable  and  dangerous  mood 
which  some  of  you  will  recall,  and  I  could  see  by  the 
light  in  his  eyes  that  there  was  mischief  brewing, 
although  at  the  time  I  did  not  know  its  nature. 

"I  should  explain  that  we  were  amusing  ourselves 
in  a  room  which  was  nearly  as  large  as  the  lounge  of 
this  hotel,  and  furnished  in  a  somewhat  similar 
manner.  There  were  carved  pillars  and  stained  glass 
domes,  a  little  fountain,  and  all  those  other  peculiari- 
ties of  an  Eastern  household. 

"Presently,  Adderley  gave  an  order  to  one  of  his 


HAND  OF  MANDARIN  QUONG        325 

servants,  and  glanced  at  me  with  that  sort  of  mocking, 
dare-devil  look  in  his  eyes  which  I  loathed,  which 
everybody  loathed  who  ever  met  the  man.  Of  course 
I  had  no  idea  what  all  this  portended,  but  I  was  very 
shortly  to  learn. 

"While  he  was  still  looking  at  me,  but  stealing 
side-glances  at  a  doorway  before  which  was  draped 
a  most  wonderful  curtain  of  a  sort  of  flamingo  colour, 
this  curtain  was  suddenly  pulled  aside,  and  a  girl 
came  in. 

"Of  course,  you  must  remember  that  at  the  time  of 
which  I  am  speaking  the  scandal  respecting  the  man- 
darin had  not  yet  come  to  light.  Consequently  I  had 
no  idea  who  the  girl  could  be.  I  saw  she  was  a 
Eurasian.  But  of  her  striking  beauty  there  could  be 
no  doubt  whatever.  She  was  dressed  in  magnificent 
robes,  and  she  literally  glittered  with  jewels.  She 
even  wore  jewels  upon  the  toes  of  her  little  bare  feet. 
But  the  first  thing  that  struck  me  at  the  moment  of  her 
appearance  was  that  her  presence  there  was  contrary 
to  her  wishes  and  inclinations.  I  have  never  seen  a 
similar  expression  in  any  woman's  eyes.  She  looked 
at  Adderley  as  though  she  would  gladly  have  slain  him ! 

"Seeing  this  look,  his  mocking  smile  in  which  there 
was  something  of  triumph — of  the  joy  of  possession 
— turned  to  a  scowl  of  positive  brutality.  He  clenched 
his  fists  in  a  way  that  set  me  bristling.  He  advanced 
toward  the  girl — and  although  the  width  of  the  room 
divided  them,  she  recoiled — and  the  significance  of 
expression  and  gesture  was  unmistakable.  Adderley 
paused. 


326  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"  'So  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  dance  after 
all?'  he  shouted. 

"The  look  in  the  girl's  dark  eyes  was  pitiful,  and 
she  turned  to  me  with  a  glance  of  dumb  entreaty. 

"'No,  no!'  she  cried.  'No,  no!  Why  do  you 
bring  me  here?' 

"'Dance!'  roared  Adderley.  'Dance!  That's 
what  I  want  you  to  do.' 

"Rebellion  leapt  again  to  the  wonderful  eyes,  and 
she  started  back  with  a  perfectly  splendid  gesture  of 
defiance.  At  that  my  brutal  and  drunken  host  leapt 
in  her  direction.  I  was  on  my  feet  now,  but  before  I 
could  act  the  girl  said  a  thing  which  checked  him, 
sobered  him,  which  pulled  him  up  short,  as  though 
he  had  encountered  a  stone  wall. 

"  'Ah,  God!'  she  said.  (She  was  speaking,  of 
course,  in  her  native  tongue.)  'His  hand!  His  hand! 
Look!  His  hand !' 

"To  me  her  words  were  meaningless,  naturally,  but 
following  the  direction  of  her  positively  agonized 
glance  I  saw  that  she  was  watching  what  seemed  to 
me  to  be  the  shadow  of  someone  moving  behind  the 
flame-like  curtain  which  produced  an  effect  not  unlike 
that  of  a  huge,  outstretched  hand,  the  fingers  crooked, 
claw-fashion. 

" 'Knox,  Knox!'  whispered  Adderley,  grasping  me 
by  the  shoulder. 

"He  pointed  with  a  quivering  finger  toward  this 
indistinct  shadow  upon  the  curtain,  and: 

"  'Do  you  see  it — do  you  see  it?'  he  said  huskily. 
'It  is  his  hand — it  is  his  hand!' 


HAND  OF  MANDARIN  QUONG        327 

"Of  the  pair,  I  think,  the  man  was  the  more 
frightened.  But  the  girl,  uttering  a  frightful  shriek, 
ran  out  of  the  room  as  though  pursued  by  a  demon. 
As  she  did  so  whoever  had  been  moving  behind  the 
curtain  evidently  went  away.  The  shadow  disap- 
peared, and  Adderley,  still  staring  as  if  hypnotized  at 
the  spot  where  it  had  been,  continued  to  hold  my 
shoulder  as  in  a  vise.  Then,  sinking  down  upon  a 
heap  of  cushions  beside  me,  he  loudly  and  shakily 
ordered  more  champagne. 

"Utterly  mystified  by  the  incident,  I  finally  left  him 
in  a  state  of  stupor,  and  returned  to  my  quarters, 
wondering  whether  I  had  dreamed  half  of  the  episode 
or  the  whole  of  it,  whether  he  did  really  possess  that 
wonderful  palace,  or  whether  he  had  borrowed  it  to 
impress  me." 

I  ceased  speaking,  and  my  story  was  received  in 
absolute  silence,  until: 

"And  that  is  all  you  know?"  said  Burton. 

"Absolutely  all.  I  had  to  leave  about  that  time, 
you  remember,  and  afterward  went  to  France." 

"Yes,  I  remember.  It  was  while  you  were  away 
that  the  scandal  arose  respecting  the  mandarin.  Extra- 
ordinary story,  Knox.  I  should  like  to  know  what  it 
all  meant,  and  what  the  end  of  it  was." 

Dr.  Matheson  broke  his  long  silence. 

"Although  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  enlighten  you  re- 
specting the  end  of  the  story,"  he  said  quietly,  "per- 
haps I  can  carry  it  a  step  further." 

"Really,  Doctor?  What  do  you  know  about  the 
matter?" 


328  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"I  accidentally  became  implicated  as  follows,"  re- 
plied the  American:  "I  was,  as  you  know,  doing 
voluntary  surgical  work  near  Singapore  at  the  time, 
and  one  evening,  presumably  about  the  same  period 
of  which  Knox  is  speaking,  I  was  returning  from  the 
hospital  at  Katong,  at  which  I  acted  sometimes  as 
anaesthetist,  to  my  quarters  in  Singapore;  just  drift- 
ing along,  leisurely  by  the  edge  of  the  gardens  admir- 
ing the  beauty  of  the  mangroves  and  the  deceitful  peace 
of  the  Eastern  night. 

"The  hour  was  fairly  late  and  not  a  soul  was  about. 
Nothing  disturbed  the  silence  except  those  vague 
sibilant  sounds  which  are  so  characteristic  of  the 
country.  Presently,  as  I  rambled  on  with  my  thoughts 
wandering  back  to  the  dim  ages,  I  literally  fell  over 
a  man  who  lay  in  the  road. 

"I  was  naturally  startled,  but  I  carried  an  electric 
pocket  torch,  and  by  its  light  I  discovered  that  the 
person  over  whom  I  had  fallen  was  a  dignified-looking 
Chinaman,  somewhat  past  middle  age.  His  clothes, 
which  were  of  good  quality,  were  covered  with  dirt 
and  blood,  and  he  bore  all  the  appearance  of  having 
recently  been  engaged  in  a  very  tough  struggle.  His 
face  was  notable  only  for  its  possession  of  an  unusually 
long  jet-black  moustache.  He  had  swooned  from 
loss  of  blood." 

"Why,  was  he  wounded?"  exclaimed  Jennings. 

"His  hand  had  been  nearly  severed  from  his  wrist!" 

"Merciful  heavens!" 

"I  realized  the  impossibility  of  carrying  him  so  far 
as  the  hospital,  and  accordingly  I  extemporized  a 


HAND  OF  MANDARIN  QUONG        329 

rough  tourniquet  and  left  him  under  a  palm  tree  by 
the  road  until  I  obtained  assistance.  Later,  at  the 
hospital,  following  a  consultation,  we  found  it  neces- 
sary to  amputate." 

"I  should  say  he  objected  fiercely?" 

"He  was  past  objecting  to  anything,  otherwise  I 
have  no  doubt  he  would  have  objected  furiously.  The 
index  finger  of  the  injured  hand  had  one  of  those  pre- 
ternaturally  long  nails,  protected  by  an  engraved 
golden  case.  However,  at  least  I  gave  him  a  chance 
of  life.  He  was  under  my  care  for  some  time,  but  I 
doubt  if  ever  he  was  properly  grateful.  He  had  an 
iron  constitution,  though,  and  I  finally  allowed  him 
to  depart.  One  queer  stipulation  he  had  made — that 
the  severed  hand,  with  its  golden  nail-case,  should  be 
given  to  him  when  he  left  hospital.  And  this  bargain 
I  faithfully  carried  out." 

"Most  extraordinary,"  I  said.  "Did  you  ever  learn 
the  identity  of  the  old  gentleman?" 

"He  was  very  reticent,  but  I  made  a  number  of 
inquiries,  and  finally  learned  with  absolute  certainty, 
I  think,  that  he  was  the  Mandarin  Quong  Mi  Su  from 
Johore  Bahru,  a  person  of  great  repute  among  the 
Chinese  there,  and  rather  a  big  man  in  China.  He 
was  known  locally  as  the  Mandarin  Quong." 

"Did  you  learn  anything  respecting  how  he  had 
come  by  his  injury,  Doctor?" 

Matheson  smiled  in  his  quiet  fashion,  and  selected 
a  fresh  cigar  with  great  deliberation.  Then: 

"I  suppose  it  is  scarcely  a  case  of  betraying  a  pro- 
fessional secret,"  he  said,  "but  during  the  time  that  my 


330  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

patient  was  recovering  from  the  effects  of  the  anaes- 
thetic he  unconsciously  gave  me  several  clues  to  the 
nature  of  the  episode.  Putting  two  and  two  together 
I  gathered  that  someone,  although  the  name  of  this 
person  never  once  passed  the  lips  of  the  mandarin, 
had  abducted  his  favourite  wife." 

"Good  heavens!  truly  amazing,"  I  exclaimed. 

"Is  it  not?  How  small  a  place  the  world  is.  My 
old  mandarin  had  traced  the  abductor  and  presumably 
the  girl  to  some  house  which  I  gathered  to  be  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Katong.  In  an  attempt  to  force  an 
entrance — doubtless  with  the  amiable  purpose  of 
slaying  them  both — he  had  been  detected  by  the  prime 
object  of  his  hatred.  In  hurriedly  descending  from  a 
window  he  had  been  attacked  by  some  weapon,  pos- 
sibly a  sword,  and  had  only  made  good  his  escape  in 
the  condition  in  which  I  found  him.  How  far  he  had 
proceeded  I  cannot  say,  but  I  should  imagine  that  the 
house  to  which  he  had  been  was  no  great  distance  from 
the  spot  where  I  found  him." 

"Comment  is  really  superfluous,"  remarked  Burton. 
"He  was  looking  for  Adderley." 

"I  agree,"  said  Jennings. 

"And,"  I  added,  "it  was  evidently  after  this  episode 
that  I  had  the  privilege  of  visiting  that  interesting 
establishment." 

There  was  a  short  interval  of  silence ;  then : 

"You  probably  retain  no  very  clear  impression  of 
the  shadow  which  you  saw,"  said  Dr.  Matheson,  with 
great  deliberation.  "At  the  time  perhaps  you  had  less 
occasion  particularly  to  study  it.  But  are  you  satisfied 


HAND  OF  MANDARIN  QUONG        331 

that  it  was  really  caused  by  someone  moving  behind 
the  curtain?" 

I  considered  his  question  for  a  few  moments. 

"I  am  not,"  I  confessed.  "Your  story,  Doctor, 
makes  me  wonder  whether  it  may  not  have  been  due 
to  something  else." 

"What  else  can  it  have  been  due  to?"  exclaimed 
Jennings  contemptuously — "unless  to  the  champagne?" 

"I  won't  quote  Shakespeare,"  said  Dr.  Matheson, 
smiling  in  his  odd  way.  "The  famous  lines,  though 
appropriate,  are  somewhat  overworked.  But  I  will 
quote  Kipling:  'East  is  East,  and  West  is  West.'  " 


II 

THE  LADY  OF  KATONG 

FULLY  six  months  had  elapsed,  and  on  returning 
from  Singapore  I  had  forgotten  all  about  Add- 
erley  and  the  unsavoury  stories  connected  with 
his  reputation.  Then,  one  evening  as  I  was  strolling 
aimlessly  along  St.  James's  Street,  wondering  how  I 
was  going  to  kill  time — for  almost  everyone  I  knew 
was  out  of  town,  including  Paul  Harley,  and  London 
can  be  infinitely  more  lonely  under  such  conditions  than 
any  desert — I  saw  a  thick-set  figure  approaching  along 
the  other  side  of  the  street. 

The  swing  of  the  shoulders,  the  aggressive  turn  of 
the  head,  were  vaguely  familiar,  and  while  I  was 
searching  my  memory  and  endeavouring  to  obtain  a 
view  of  the  man's  face,  he  stared  across  in  my  direction. 

It  was  Adderley. 

He  looked  even  more  debauched  than  I  remem- 
bered him,  for  whereas  in  Singapore  he  had  had  a 
tanned  skin,  now  he  looked  unhealthily  pallid  and 
blotchy.  He  raised  his  hand,  and : 

"Knox!"  he  cried,  and  ran  across  to  greet  me. 

His  boisterous  manner  and  a  sort  of  coarse  geniality 
which  he  possessed  had  made  him  popular  with  a 
certain  set  in  former  days,  but  I,  who  knew  that  this 

332 


HAND  OF  MANDARIN  QUONG        333 

geniality  was  forced,  and  assumed  to  conceal  a  sort  of 
appalling  animalism,  had  never  been  deceived  by  it. 
Most  people  found  Adderley  out  sooner  or  later,  but 
I  had  detected  the  man's  true  nature  from  the  very 
beginning.  His  eyes  alone  were  danger  signals  for 
any  amateur  psychologist.  However,  I  greeted  him 
civilly  enough : 

"Bless  my  soul,  you  are  looking  as  fit  as  a  fiddle !" 
he  cried.  "Where  have  you  been,  and  what  have  you 
been  doing  since  I  saw  you  last?" 

"Nothing  much,"  I  replied,  "beyond  trying  to  settle 
down  in  a  reformed  world." 

"Reformed  world !"  echoed  Adderley.  "More  like 
a  ruined  world  it  has  seemed  to  me." 

He  laughed  loudly.  That  he  had  already  explored 
several  bottles  was  palpable. 

We  were  silent  for  a  while,  mentally  weighing  one 
another  up,  as  it  were.  Then: 

"Are  you  living  in  town?"  asked  Adderley. 

"I  am  staying  at  the  Carlton  at  the  moment,"  I 
replied.  "My  chambers  are  in  the  hands  of  the 
decorators.  It's  awkward.  Interferes  with  my 
work." 

"Work!"  cried  Adderley.  "Work!  It's  a  nasty 
word,  Knox.  Are  you  doing  anything  now?" 

"Nothing,  until  eight  o'clock,  when  I  have  an  ap- 
pointment." 

"Come  along  to  my  place,"  he  suggested,  "and  have 
a  cup  of  tea,  or  a  whisky  and  soda  if  you  prefer  it." 

Probably  I  should  have  refused,  but  even  as  he 
spoke  I  was  mentally  translated  to  the  lounge  of  the 


334  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

Hotel  de  1'Europe,  and  prompted  by  a  very  human 
curiosity  I  determined  to  accept  his  invitation.  I 
wondered  if  Fate  had  thrown  an  opportunity  in  my 
way  of  learning  the  end  of  the  peculiar  story  which 
had  been  related  on  that  occasion. 

I  accompanied  Adderley  to  his  chambers,  which 
were  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  spot  where  I  had 
met  him.  That  this  gift  for  making  himself  unpop- 
ular with  all  and  sundry,  high  and  low,  had  not 
deserted  him,  was  illustrated  by  the  attitude  of  the 
liftman  as  we  entered  the  hall  of  the  chambers.  He 
was  barely  civil  to  Adderley  and  even  regarded  my- 
self with  marked  disfavour. 

We  were  admitted  by  Adderley's  man,  whom  I  had 
not  seen  before,  but  who  was  some  kind  of  foreigner, 
I  think  a  Portuguese.  It  was  characteristic  of  Ad- 
derley. No  Englishman  would  ever  serve  him  for 
long,  and  there  had  been  more  than  one  man  in 
his  old  Company  who  had  openly  avowed  his  inten- 
tion of  dealing  with  Adderley  on  the  first  available 
occasion. 

His  chambers  were  ornately  furnished;  indeed,  the 
room  in  which  we  sat  more  closely  resembled  a  scene 
from  an  Oscar  Asche  production  than  a  normal  man's 
study.  There  was  something  unreal  about  it  all.  I 
have  since  thought  that  this  unreality  extended  to  the 
person  of  the  man  himself.  Grossly  material,  he  yet 
possessed  an  aura  of  mystery,  mystery  of  an  unsavoury 
sort.  There  was  something  furtive,  secretive,  about 
Adderley's  entire  mode  of  life. 

I  had  never  felt  at  ease  in  his  company,  and  now 


HAND  OF  MANDARIN  QUONG        335 

as  I  sat  staring  wonderingly  at  the  strange  and  costly 
ornaments  with  which  the  room  was  overladen  I  be- 
thought me  of  the  object  of  my  visit.  How  I  should 
have  brought  the  conversation  back  to  our  Singapore 
days  I  know  not,  but  a  suitable  opening  was  presently 
offered  by  Adderley  himself. 

"Do  you  ever  see  any  of  the  old  gang?"  he  in- 
quired. 

"I  was  in  Singapore  about  six  months  ago,"  I 
replied,  uand  I  met  some  of  them  again." 

"What!  Had  they  drifted  back  to  the  East  after 
all?" 

"Two  or  three  of  them  were  taking  what  Dr.  Math- 
eson  described  as  a  Busman's  Holiday." 

At  mention  of  Dr.  Matheson's  name  Adderley 
visibly  started. 

"So  you  know  Matheson,"  he  murmured.  "I 
didn't  know  you  had  ever  met  him." 

Plainly  to  hide  his  confusion  he  stood  up,  and 
crossing  the  room  drew  my  attention  to  a  rather  fine 
silver  bowl  of  early  Persian  ware.  He  was  displaying 
its  peculiar  virtues  and  showing  a  certain  acquaintance 
with  his  subject  when  he  was  interrupted.  A  door 
opened  suddenly  and  a  girl  came  in.  Adderley  put 
down  the  bowl  and  turned  rapidly  as  I  rose  from  my 
seat. 

It  was  the  lady  of  Katong! 

I  recognized  her  at  once,  although  she  wore  a  very 
up-to-date  gown.  While  it  did  not  suit  her  dark  good 
looks  so  well  as  the  native  dress  which  she  had  worn 
at  Singapore,  yet  it  could  not  conceal  the  fact  that  in 
a  barbaric  way;  she  was  a  very  beautiful  woman.  On 


336  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

finding  a  visitor  in  the  room  she  became  covered  with 
confusion. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  speaking  in  Hindustani.  "Why 
did  you  not  tell  me  there  was  someone  here?" 

Adderley's  reply  was  characteristically  brutal. 

"Get  out,"  he  said.     "You  fool." 

I  turned  to  go,  for  I  was  conscious  of  an  intense 
desire  to  attack  my  host.  But: 

"Don't  go,  Knox,  don't  go !"  he  cried.  "I  am  sorry, 
I  am  damned  sorry,  I " 

He  paused,  and  looked  at  me  in  a  queer  sort  of 
appealing  way.  The  girl,  her  big  eyes  widely  open, 
retreated  again  to  the  door,  with  curious  lithe  steps, 
characteristically  Oriental.  The  door  regained,  she 
paused  for  a  moment  and  extended  one  small  hand 
in  Adderley's  direction. 

"I  hate  you,"  she  said  slowly,  "hate  you!  Hate 
you!" 

She  went  out,  quietly  closing  the  door  behind  her. 
Adderley  turned  to  me  with  an  embarrassed  laugh. 

"I  know  you  think  I  am  a  brute  and  an  outsider," 
he  said,  "and  perhaps  I  am.  Everybody  says  I  am, 
so  I  suppose  there  must  be  something  in  it.  But  if 
ever  a  man  paid  for  his  mistakes  I  have  paid  for  mine, 
Knox.  Good  God,  I  haven't  a  friend  in  the  world." 

"You  probably  don't  deserve  one,"  I  retorted. 

"I  know  I  don't,  and  that's  the  tragedy  of  it,"  he 
replied.  "You  may  not  believe  it,  Knox;  I  don't 
expect  anybody  to  believe  me;  but  for  more  than  a 
year  I  have  been  walking  on  the  edge  of  Hell.  Do 
you  know  where  I  have  been  since  I  saw  you  last?" 


HAND  OF  MANDARIN  QUONG        337 

I  shook  my  head  in  answer. 

"I  have  been  half  round  the  world,  Knox,  trying  to 
find  peace." 

"You  don't  know  where  to  look  for  it,"  I  said. 

"If  only  you  knew,"  he  whispered.  "If  only  you 
knew,"  and  sank  down  upon  the  settee,  ruffling  his 
hair  with  his  hands  and  looking  the  picture  of  hag- 
gard misery.  Seeing  that  I  was  still  set  upon  depar- 
ture: 

"Hold  on  a  bit,  Knox,"  he  implored.  "Don't  go 
yet.  There  is  something  I  want  to  ask  you,  something 
very  important." 

He  crossed  to  a  sideboard  and  mixed  himself  a  stiff 
whisky-and-soda.  He  asked  me  to  join  him,  but  I 
refused. 

"Won't  you  sit  down  again?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"You  came  to  my  place  at  Katong  once,"  he  began 
abruptly.  "I  was  damned  drunk,  I  admit  it.  But 
something  happened,  do  you  remember?" 

I  nodded. 

"This  is  what  I  want  to  ask  you:  Did  you,  or  did 
you  not,  see  that  shadow?" 

I  stared  him  hard  in  the  face. 

"I  remember  the  episode  to  which  you  refer,"  I 
replied.  "I  certainly  saw  a  shadow." 

"But  what  sort  of  shadow?" 

"To  me  it  seemed  an  indefinite,  shapeless  thing,  as 
though  caused  by  someone  moving  behind  the  cur- 


tain." 


'It  didn't  look  to  you  like — the  shadow  of  a  hand?" 


338  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"It  might  have  been,  but  I  could  not  be  positive." 

Adderley  groaned. 

"Knox,"  he  said,  "money  is  a  curse.  It  has  been 
a  curse  to  me.  If  I  have  had  my  fun,  God  knows  I 
have  paid  for  it." 

"Your  idea  of  fun  is  probably  a  peculiar  one,"  I 
said  dryly. 

Let  me  confess  that  I  was  only  suffering  the  man's 
society  because  of  an  intense  curiosity  which  now 
possessed  me  on  learning  that  the  lady  of  Katong  was 
still  in  Adderley's  company. 

Whether  my  repugnance  for  his  society  would  have 
enabled  me  to  remain  any  longer  I  cannot  say.  But 
as  if  Fate  had  deliberately  planned  that  I  should  be- 
come a  witness  of  the  concluding  phases  of  this  secret 
drama,  we  were  now  interrupted  a  second  time,  and 
again  in  a  dramatic  fashion. 

Adderley's  nondescript  valet  came  in  with  letters 
and  a  rather  large  brown  paper  parcel  sealed  and 
fastened  with  great  care. 

As  the  man  went  out : 

"Surely  that  is  from  Singapore,"  muttered  Adder- 
ley,  taking  up  the  parcel. 

He  seemed  to  become  temporarily  oblivious  of  my 
presence,  and  his  face  grew  even  more  haggard  as  he 
studied  the  writing  upon  the  wrapper.  With  unsteady 
fingers  he  untied  it,  and  I  lingered,  watching  curi- 
ously. Presently  out  from  the  wrappings  he  took 
a  very  beautiful  casket  of  ebony  and  ivory,  cun- 
ningly carved  and  standing  upon  four  claw-like  ivory 
legs. 


HAND  OF  MANDARIN  QUONG        339 

"What  the  devil's  this?"  he  muttered. 

He  opened  the  box,  which  was  lined  with  sandal- 
wood,  and  thereupon  started  back  with  a  great  cry, 
recoiling  from  the  casket  as  though  it  had  contained 
an  adder.  My  former  sentiments  forgotten,  I  stepped 
forward  and  peered  into  the  interior.  Then  I,  in 
turn,  recoiled. 

In  the  box  lay  a  shrivelled  yellow  hand — with  long 
tapering  and  well-manicured  nails — neatly  severed  at 
the  wrist! 

The  nail  of  the  index  finger  was  enclosed  in  a  tiny, 
delicately  fashioned  case  of  gold,  upon  which  were 
engraved  a  number  of  Chinese  characters. 

Adderley  sank  down  again  upon  the  settee. 

"My  God!"  he  whispered,  "his  hand!  His  hand! 
He  has  sent  me  his  hand!" 

He  began  laughing.  Whereupon,  since  I  could  see 
that  the  man  was  practically  hysterical  because  of  his 
mysterious  fears: 

"Stop  that,"  I  said  sharply.  "Pull  yourself  to- 
gether, Adderley.  What  the  deuce  is  the  matter  with 
you?" 

"Take  it  away!"  he  moaned,  "take  it  away.  Take 
the  accursed  thing  away!" 

"I  admit  it  is  an  unpleasant  gift  to  send  to  anybody," 
I  said,  "but  probably  you  know  more  about  it  than  I 
do." 

"Take  it  away,"  he  repeated.  "Take  it  away,  for 
God's  sake,  take  it  away,  Knox!" 

He  was  quite  beyond  reason,  and  therefore : 

"Very  well,"  I  said,  and  wrapped  the  casket  in  the 


340  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

brown  paper  in  which  it  had  come.     "What  do  you 
want  me  to  do  with  it?" 

"Throw  it  in  the  river,"  he  answered.  "Burn  it. 
Do  anything  you  like  with  it,  but  take  it  out  of  my 
sight!" 


Ill 

THE  GOLD-CASED  NAIL 


A  I  descended  to  the  street  the  liftman  regarded 
me  in  a  curious  and  rather  significant  way. 
Finally,  just  as  I  was  about  to  step  out  into 
the  hall: 

"Excuse  me,  sir,"  he  said,  having  evidently  decided 
that  I  was  a  fit  person  to  converse  with,  "but  are  you 
a  friend  of  Mr.  Adderley's?" 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Well,  sir,  I  hope  you  will  excuse  me,  but  at  times 
I  have  thought  the  gentleman  was  just  a  little  bit 
queer,  like." 

"You  mean  insane?"  I  asked  sharply. 

"Well,  sir,  I  don't  know,  but  he  is  always  asking 
me  if  I  can  see  shadows  and  things  in  the  lift,  and 
sometimes  when  he  comes  in  late  of  a  night  he  abso- 
lutely gives  me  the  cold  shivers,  he  does." 

I  lingered,  the  box  under  my  arm,  reluctant  to  ob- 
tain confidences  from  a  servant,  but  at  the  same  time 
keenly  interested.  Thus  encouraged: 

"Then  there's  that  lady  friend  of  his  who  is  always 
coming  here,"  the  man  continued.  "She's  haunted  by 
shadows,  too."  He  paused,  watching  me  narrowly. 

341 


342  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"There's  nothing  better  in  this  world  than  a  clean 

conscience,  sir,"  he  concluded. 

***** 

Having  returned  to  my  room  at  the  hotel,  I  set 
down  the  mysterious  parcel,  surveying  it  with  much 
disfavour.  That  it  contained  the  hand  of  the  Man- 
darin Quong  I  could  not  doubt,  the  hand  which  had 
been  amputated  by  Dr.  Matheson.  Its  appearance 
in  that  dramatic  fashion  confirmed  Matheson's  idea 
that  the  mandarin's  injury  had  been  received  at  the 
hands  of  Adderley.  What  did  all  this  portend,  unless 
that  the  Mandarin  Quong  was  dead?  And  if  he  were 
dead  why  was  Adderley  more  afraid  of  him  dead  than 
he  had  been  of  him  living? 

I  thought  of  the  haunting  shadow,  I  thought  of  the 
night  at  Katong,  and  I  thought  of  Dr.  Matheson's 
words  when  he  had  told  us  of  his  discovery  of  the 
Chinaman  lying  in  the  road  that  night  outside  Singa- 
pore. 

I  felt  strangely  disinclined  to  touch  the  relic,  and 
it  was  only  after  some  moments'  hesitation  that  I 
undid  the  wrappings  and  raised  the  lid  of  the  casket. 
Dusk  was  very  near  and  I  had  not  yet  lighted  the 
lamps;  therefore  at  first  I  doubted  the  evidence  of  my 
senses.  But  having  lighted  up  and  peered  long  and 
anxiously  into  the  sandal-wood  lining  of  the  casket  I 
could  doubt  no  longer. 

The  casket  was  empty ! 

It  was  like  a  conjuring  trick.  That  the  hand  had 
been  in  the  box  when  I  had  taken  it  up  from  Adder- 
ley's  table  I  could  have  sworn  before  any  jury.  When 


HAND  OF  MANDARIN  QUONG        343 

and  by  whom  it  had  been  removed  was  a  puzzle  be- 
yond my  powers  of  unravelling.  I  stepped  toward 
the  telephone — and  then  remembered  that  Paul  Harley 
was  out  of  London.  Vaguely  wondering  if  Adderley 
had  played  me  a  particularly  gruesome  practical  joke, 
I  put  the  box  on  a  sideboard  and  again  contemplated 
the  telephone  doubtfully  for  a  moment.  It  was  in  my 
mind  to  ring  him  up.  Finally,  taking  all  things  into 
consideration,  I  determined  that  I  would  have  nothing 
further  to  do  with  the  man's  unsavoury  and  mys- 
terious affairs. 

It  was  in  vain,  however,  that  I  endeavoured  to  dis- 
miss the  matter  from  my  mind;  and  throughout  the 
evening,  which  I  spent  at  a  theatre  with  some  Ameri- 
can friends,  I  found  myself  constantly  thinking  of 
Adderley  and  the  ivory  casket,  of  the  mandarin  of 
Johore  Bahru,  and  of  the  mystery  of  the  shrivelled 
yellow  hand. 

I  had  been  back  in  my  room  about  half  an  hour, 
I  suppose,  and  it  was  long  past  midnight,  when  I  was 
startled  by  a  ringing  of  my  telephone  bell.  I  took  up 
the  receiver,  and : 

"Knox!     Knox!"  came  a  choking  cry. 

"Yes,  who  is  speaking?" 

"It  is  I,  Adderley.  For  God's  sake  come  round 
to  my  place  at  once !" 

His  words  were  scarcely  intelligible.  Undoubtedly 
he  was  in  the  grip  of  intense  emotion. 

"What  do  you  mean?     What  is  the  matter?" 

"It  is  here,  Knox,  it  is  here !  It  is  knocking  on 
the  door!  Knocking!  Knocking!" 


344  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"You  have  been  drinking,"  I  said  sternly.  "Where 
is  your  man?" 

"The  cur  has  bolted.  He  bolted  the  moment  he 
heard  that  damned  knocking.  I  am  all  alone ;  I  have 
no  one  else  to  appeal  to."  There  came  a  choking 
sound,  then:  "My  God,  Knox,  it  is  getting  in!  I  can 
see  .  .  .  the  shadow  on  the  blind  .  .  ." 

Convinced  that  Adderley's  secret  fears  had  driven 
him  mad,  I  nevertheless  felt  called  upon  to  attend  to 
his  urgent  call,  and  without  a  moment's  delay  I  hurried 
around  to  St.  James's  Street.  The  liftman  was  not 
on  duty,  the  lower  hall  was  in  darkness,  but  I  raced 
up  the  stairs  and  found  to  my  astonishment  that  Adder- 
ley's  door  was  wide  open. 

"Adderley!"  I  cried.     "Adderley!" 

There  was  no  reply,  and  without  further  ceremony 
I  entered  and  searched  the  chambers.  They  were 
empty.  Deeply  mystified,  I  was  about  to  go  out 
again  when  there  came  a  ring  at  the  door-bell.  I 
walked  to  the  door  and  a  policeman  was  standing 
upon  the  landing. 

"Good  evening,  sir,"  he  said,  and  then  paused, 
staring  at  me  curiously. 

"Good  evening,  constable,"  I  replied. 

"You  are  not  the  gentleman  who  ran  out  awhile 
ago,"  he  said,  a  note  of  suspicion  coming  into  his 
voice. 

I  handed  him  my  card  and  explained  what  had 
occurred,  then: 

"It  must  have  been  Mr.  Adderley  I  saw,"  muttered 
the  constable. 


HAND  OF  MANDARIN  QUONG        345 

"You  saw— when?" 

"Just  before  you   arrived,   sir.     He  came   racing 
out  into  St.  James's  Street  and  dashed  off  like  a  mad- 


man." 


uln  which  direction  was  he  going?" 

"Toward  Pall  Mall." 

*  *  *  *  * 

The  neighbourhood  was  practically  deserted  at  that 
hour.  But  from  the  guard  on  duty  before  the  palace 
we  obtained  our  first  evidence  of  Adderley's  move- 
ments. He  had  raced  by  some  five  minutes  before, 
frantically  looking  back  over  his  shoulder  and  behav- 
ing like  a  man  flying  for  his  life.  No  one  else  had 
seen  him.  No  one  else  ever  did  see  him  alive.  At 
two  o'clock  there  was  no  news,  but  I  had  informed 
Scotland  Yard  and  official  inquiries  had  been  set  afoot. 

Nothing  further  came  to  light  that  night,  but  as  all 
readers  of  the  daily  press  will  remember,  Adderley's 
body  was  taken  out  of  the  pond  in  St.  James's  Park 
on  the  following  day.  Death  was  due  to  drowning, 
but  his  throat  was  greatly  discoloured  as  though  it 
had  been  clutched  in  a  fierce  grip. 

It  was  I  who  identified  the  body,  and  as  many 
people  will  know,  in  spite  of  the  closest  inquiries,  the 
mystery  of  Adderley's  death  has  not  been  properly 
cleared  up  to  this  day.  The  identity  of  the  lady  who 
visited  him  at  his  chambers  was  never  discovered. 
She  completely  disappeared. 

The  ebony  and  ivory  casket  lies  on  my  table  at  this 
present  moment,  visible  evidence  of  an  invisible  menace 
from  which  Adderley  had  fled  around  the  world. 


346  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

Doubtless  the  truth  will  never  be  known  now.  A 
significant  discovery,  however,  was  made  some  days 
after  the  recovery  of  Adderley's  body. 

From  the  bottom  of  the  pond  in  St.  James's  Park 
a  patient  Scotland  Yard  official  brought  up  the  gold 
nail-case  with  its  mysterious  engravings — and  it  con- 
tained, torn  at  the  root,  the  incredibly  long  finger-nail 
of  the  Mandarin  Quong! 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  TEMPLE  OF  HEAVEN 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  TEMPLE  OF  HEAVEN 

I 

THE  KEEPER  OF  THE  KEY 

THE  note  of  a  silver  bell  quivered  musically 
through  the  scented  air  of  the  ante-room. 
Madame  de  Medici  stirred  slightly  upon  the 
divan  with  its  many  silken  cushions,  turning  her  head 
toward  the  closed  door  with  the  languorous,  almost 
insolent,  indifference  which  one  perceives  in  the  move- 
ments of  a  tigress.  Below,  in  the  lobby,  where  the 
pillars  of  Mokattam  alabaster  upheld  the  painted 
roof,  the  little  yellow  man  from  Pekin  shivered 
slightly,  although  the  air  was  warm  for  Limehouse, 
and  always  turned  his  mysterious  eyes  toward  a  corner 
of  the  great  staircase  which  was  visible  from  where  he 
sat,  coiled  up,  a  lonely  figure  in  the  mushrabiyeh  chair. 
Madame  blew  a  wreath  of  smoke  from  her  lips,  and, 
through  half-closed  eyes,  watched  it  ascend,  unbroken, 
toward  the  canopy  of  cloth-of-gold  which  masked  the 
ceiling.  A  Madonna  by  Leonardo  da  Vinci  faced  her 
across  the  apartment,  the  painted  figure  seeming  to 
watch  the  living  one  upon  the  divan.  Madame 
smiled  into  the  eyes  of  the  Madonna.  Surely  even  the 
great  Leonardo  must  have  failed  to  reproduce  that 

349 


3  5  o  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

smile — the  great  Leonardo  whose  supreme  art  has 
captured  the  smile  of  Mona  Lisa.  Madame  had  the 
smile  of  Cleopatra,  which,  it  is  said,  made  Caesar  mad, 
though  in  repose  the  beauty  of  Egypt's  queen  left  him 
cold.  A  robe  of  Kashmiri  silk,  fine  with  a  phantom 
fineness,  draped  her  exquisite  shape  as  the  art  of 
Cellini  draped  the  classic  figures  which  he  wrought  in 
gold  and  silver ;  it  seemed  incorporate  with  her  beauty. 

A  second  wreath  of  smoke  curled  upward  to  the 
canopy,  and  Madame  watched  this  one  also  through 
the  veil  of  her  curved  black  lashes,  as  the  Eastern 
woman  watches  the  world  through  her  veil.  Those 
eyes  were  notable  even  in  so  lovely  a  setting,  for  they 
were  of  a  hue  rarely  seen  in  human  eyes,  being  like  the 
eyes  of  a  tigress;  yet  they  could  seem  voluptuously 
soft,  twin  pools  of  liquid  amber,  in  whose  depths  a 
man  might  lose  his  soul. 

Again  the  silver  bell  sounded  in  the  ante-room, 
and,  below,  the  little  yellow  man  shivered  sympathet- 
ically. Again  Madame  stirred  with  that  high  disdain 
that  so  became  her,  who  had  the  eyes  of  a  tigress. 
Her  carmine  lips  possessed  the  antique  curve  which 
we  are  told  distinguished  the  lips  of  the  Comtesse  de 
Cagliostro;  her  cheeks  had  the  freshness  of  flowers, 
and  her  hair  the  blackness  of  ebony,  enhancing  the 
miracle  of  her  skin,  which  had  the  whiteness  of  ivory 
— not  of  African  ivory,  but  of  that  fossil  ivory  which 
has  lain  for  untold  ages  beneath  the  snows  of  Siberia. 

She  dropped  the  cigarette  from  her  tapered  fingers 
into  a  little  silver  bowl  upon  a  table  at  her  side,  then 
lightly  touched  the  bell  which  stood  there  also.  Its 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  TEMPLE          351 

soft  note  answered  to  the  bell  in  the  ante-room;  a 
white-robed  Chinese  servant  silently  descended  the 
great  staircase,  his  soft  red  slippers  sinking  into  the 
rich  pile  of  the  carpet;  and  the  little  yellow  man  from 
the  great  temple  in  Pekin  followed  him  back  up  the 
stairway  and  was  ushered  into  the  presence  of 
Madame  de  Medici. 

The  servant  closed  the  door  silently  and  the  little 
yellow  man,  fixing  his  eyes  upon  the  beautiful  woman 
before  him,  fell  upon  his  knees  and  bowed  his  fore- 
head to  the  carpet. 

Madame's  lovely  lips  curved  again  in  the  disdainful 
smile,  and  she  extended  one  bare  ivory  arm  toward  the 
visitor  who  knelt  as  a  suppliant  at  her  feet. 

"Rise,  my  friend!"  she  said,  in  purest  Chinese, 
which  fell  from  her  lips  with  the  music  of  a  crystal 
spring.  "How  may  I  serve  you?" 

The  yellow  man  rose  and  advanced  a  step  nearer  to 
the  divan,  but  the  strange  beauty  of  Madame  had 
spoken  straight  to  his  Eastern  heart,  had  awakened 
his  soul  to  a  new  life.  His  glance  travelled  over  the 
vision  before  him,  from  the  little  Persian  slipper  that 
peeped  below  the  drapery  of  Kashmiri  silk  to  the  small 
classic  head  with  its  crown  of  ebon  locks;  yet  he  dared 
not  meet  the  glance  of  the  amber  eyes. 

"Sit  here  beside  me,"  directed  Madame,  and  she 
slightly  changed  her  position  with  that  languorous 
and  lithe  grace  suggestive  of  a  creature  of  the  jungle. 

Breathing  rapidly  betwixt  the  importance  of  his 
mission  and  a  new,  intoxicating  emotion  which  had 
come  upon  him  at  the  moment  of  entering  the  per- 


352  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

fumed  room,  the  yellow  man  obeyed,  but  always  with 
glance  averted  from  the  taunting  face  of  Madame.  A 
golden  incense-burner  stood  upon  the  floor,  over  be- 
tween the  high,  draped  windows,  and  a  faint  pencil 
from  its  dying  fires  stole  grayly  upward.  Upon  the 
scented  smoke  the  Buddhist  priest  fixed  his  eyes,  and 
began,  with  a  rapidity  that  grew  as  he  proceeded,  to 
pour  out  his  tale.  Seated  beside  him,  one  round  arm 
resting  upon  the  cushions  so  as  almost  to  touch  him, 
Madame  listened,  watching  the  averted  yellow  face, 
and  always  smiling — smiling. 

The  tale  was  done  at  last;  the  incense-burner  was 
cold,  and  breathlessly  the  Buddhist  clutched  his  knees 
with  lean,  clawish  fingers  and  swayed  to  and  fro, 
striving  to  conquer  the  emotions  that  whirled  and 
fought  within  him.  Selecting  another  cigarette  from 
the  box  beside  her,  and  lighting  it  deliberately, 
Madame  de  Medici  spoke. 

"My  friend  of  old,"  she  said,  and  of  the  language 
of  China  she  made  strange  music,  "you  come  to  me 
from  your  home  in  the  secret  city,  because  you  know 
that  I  can  serve  you.  It  is  enough." 

She  touched  the  bell  upon  the  table,  and  the  white- 
robed  servant  reentered,  and,  bowing  low,  held  open 
the  door.  The  little  yellow  man,  first  kneeling  upon 
the  carpet  before  the  divan  as  before  an  altar,  hurried 
from  the  apartment.  As  the  door  was  reclosed,  and 
Madame  found  herself  alone  again,  she  laughed 
lightly,  as  Calypso  laughed  when  Ulysses'  ship  ap- 
peared off  the  shores  of  her  isle. 

God  fashions  few  such  women.     It  is  well. 


II 

THE  TIGER   LADY 

BY    HEAVENS,    Annesley!"    whispered    Rene 
Deacon,  "what  eyes  that  woman  has !" 
His  companion,  following  the  direction  of 
Deacon's  glance,  nodded  rather  grimly. 

"The  eyes  of  a  Circe,  or  at  times  the  eyes  of  a 
tigress." 

"She  is  magnificent!"  murmured  Deacon  raptur- 
ously. "I  have  never  seen  so  beautiful  a  woman." 

His  glance  followed  the  tall  figure  as  it  passed  into 
a  smaller  salon  on  the  left;  nor  was  he  alone  in  his 
regard.  Fashionable  society  was  well  represented  in 
the  gallery — where  a  collection  of  pictures  by  a  cele- 
brated artist  was  being  shown;  and  prior  to  the 
entrance  of  the  lady  in  the  strangely  fashioned  tiger- 
skin  cloak,  the  somewhat  extraordinary  works  of  art 
had  engaged  the  interest  even  of  the  most  fickle,  but, 
from  the  moment  the  tiger-lady  made  her  appearance, 
even  the  most  daring  canvases  were  forgotten. 

"She  wears  tiger-skin  shoes!"  whispered  one. 

"She  is  like  a  design  for  a  poster!"  laughed  another. 

"I  have  never  seen  anything  so  flashy  in  my  life," 
was  the  acrid  comment  of  a  third. 

353 


354  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

uWhat  a  dazzlingly  beautiful  woman!"  remarked 
another — this  one  a  man.  While: 

"Who  is  she?"  arose  upon  all  sides. 

Judging  from  the  isolation  of  the  barbaric  figure, 
it  would  seem  that  society  did  not  know  the  tiger- 
lady,  but  Deacon,  seizing  his  companion  by  the  arm 
and  almost  dragging  him  into  the  small  salon  which 
the  lady  had  entered,  turned  in  the  doorway  and 
looked  into  Annesley's  eyes.  Annesley  palpably 
sought  to  evade  the  glance. 

"You  know  everybody"  whispered  Deacon.  "You 
must  be  acquainted  with  her." 

A  great  number  of  people  were  now  thronging  into 
the  room,  not  so  much  because  of  the  pictures  it 
contained,  but  rather  out  of  curiosity  respecting  the 
beautiful  unknown.  Annesley  tried  to  withdraw;  his 
uneasiness  grew  momentarily  greater. 

"I  scarcely  know  her  well  enough,"  he  protested, 
"to  present  you.  Moreover " 

"But  she's  smiling  at  you!"  interrupted  Deacon 
eagerly. 

His  handsome  but  rather  weak  face  was  flushed; 
he  was,  as  an  old  clubman  had  recently  said  of  him, 
"so  very  young."  He  lacked  the  restraint  usual  in 
cultured  Englishmen,  and  had  the  frankly  passionate 
manner  which  one  associates  with  the  South.  His 
uncle,  Colonel  Deacon,  a  mordant  wit,  would  say 
apologetically : 

"Reggie"  (Deacon's  father)  "married  a  Gascon 
woman.  She  was  delightfully  pretty.  Poor  Reggie  1" 

Certainly  Rene  was  impetuous  to  an  embarrassing 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  TEMPLE          355 

degree,  nor  lightly  to  be  thwarted.  Boldly  meeting 
the  glance  of  the  woman  of  the  amber  eyes,  he  pushed 
Annesley  forward,  not  troubling  to  disguise  his  anxiety 
to  be  presented  to  the  tiger-lady.  She  turned  her  head 
languidly,  with  that  wild-animal  grace  of  hers,  and 
unsmiling  now,  regarded  Annesley. 

"So  you  forget  me  so  soon,  Mr.  Annesley,"  she 
murmured,  "or  is  it  that  you  play  the  good  shep- 
herd?" 

"My  dear  Madame,"  said  Annesley,  recovering 
with  an  effort  his  wonted  sang-froid,  "I  was  merely 
endeavouring  to  calm  the  rhapsodies  of  my  friend, 
who  seemed  disposed  to  throw  himself  at  your  feet  in 
knight-errant  fashion." 

"He  is  a  very  handsome  boy,"  murmured  Madame; 
and  as  the  great  eyes  were  turned  upon  Deacon  the 
carmine  lips  curved  again  in  the  Cleopatrian  smile. 

She  was  indeed  wonderful,  for  while  she  spoke  as 
the  woman  of  the  world  to  the  boy,  there  was  nothing 
maternal  in  her  patronage,  and  her  eyes  were  twin 
flambeaux,  luring — luring,  and  her  sweet  voice  was  a 
siren's  song. 

"May  I  beg  leave  to  present  my  friend,  Mr.  Rene 
Deacon,  Madame  de  Medici?"  said  Annesley;  and 
as  the  two  exchanged  glances — the  boy's  a  glance  of 
undisguised  passionate  admiration,  the  woman's  a 
glance  unfathomable — he  slightly  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders and  stood  aside. 

There  were  others  in  the  salon,  who,  perceiving  that 
the  unknown  beauty  was  acquainted  with  Annesley, 
began  to  move  from  canvas  to  canvas  toward  that  end 


356  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

of  the  room  where  the  trio  stood.  But  Madame  did 
not  appear  anxious  to  make  new  acquaintances. 

"I  have  seen  quite  enough  of  this  very  entertaining 
exhibition,"  she  said  languidly,  toying  with  a  great 
unset  emerald  which  swung  by  a  thin  gold  chain  about 
her  neck.  "Might  I  entreat  you  to  take  pity  upon  a 
very  lonely  woman  and  return  with  me  to  tea?" 

Annesley  seemed  on  the  point  of  refusing,  when: 

"I  have  acquired  a  reputed  Leonardo,"  continued 
Madame,  "and  I  wish  you  to  see  it." 

There  was  something  so  like  a  command  in  the 
words  that  Deacon  stared  at  his  companion  in  frank 
surprise.  The  latter  avoided  his  glance,  and: 

"Come!"  said  Madame  de  Medici. 

As  of  old  the  great  Catherine  of  her  name  might 
have  withdrawn  with  her  suite,  so  now  the  lady  of  the 
tiger  skins  withdrew  from  the  gallery,  the  two  men 
following  obediently,  and  one  of  them  at  least  a  happy 
courtier. 


Ill 

TWIN    POOLS   OF    AMBER 


THE  white-robed  Chinese  servant  entered  and 
placed  fresh  perfume  upon  the  burning  char- 
coal of  the  silver  incense-burner.  As  the 
scented  smoke  began  to  rise  he  withdrew,  and  a  second 
servant  entered,  who  facially,  in  dress,  in  figure  and 
bearing,  was  a  duplicate  of  the  first.  This  one  carried 
a  large  tray  upon  which  was  set  an  exquisite  porcelain 
tea-service.  He  placed  the  tray  upon  a  low  table 
beside  the  divan,  and  in  turn  withdrew. 

Deacon,  seated  in  a  great  ebony  chair,  smoked 
rapidly  and  nervously — looking  about  the  strangely 
appointed  room  with  its  huge  picture  of  the  Madonna, 
its  jade  Buddha  surmounting  a  gilded  Burmese  cabinet, 
its  Persian  canopy  and  Egyptian  divan,  at  the  thou- 
sand and  one  costly  curiosities  which  it  displayed,  at 
this  mingling  of  East  and  West,  of  Christianity  and 
paganism,  with  a  growing  wonder. 

To  one  of  his  blood  there  was  delight,  intoxication, 
in  that  room;  but  something  of  apprehension,  too, 
now  grew  up  within  him. 

Madame  de  Medici  entered.  The  garish  motor- 
coat  was  discarded  now,  and  her  supple  figure  was 
seen  to  best  advantage  in  one  of  those  dark  silken 

357 


358  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

gowns  which  she  affected,  and  which  had  a  seeming 
of  the  ultra-fashionable  because  they  defied  fashion. 
She  held  in  her  hand  an  orchid,  its  structure  that  of 
an  odontoglossum,  but  of  a  delicate  green  colour 
heavily  splashed  with  scarlet — a  weird  and  unnatural- 
looking  bloom. 

Just  within  the  doorway  she  paused,  as  Deacon 
leaped  up,  and  looked  at  him  through  the  veil  of  the 
curved  lashes. 

"For  you,"  she  said,  twirling  the  blossom  between 
her  fingers  and  gliding  toward  him  with  her  tigerish 
step. 

He  spoke  no  word,  but,  face  flushed,  sought  to  look 
into  her  eyes  as  she  pinned  the  orchid  in  the  button- 
hole of  his  coat.  Her  hands  were  flawless  in  shape 
and  colouring,  being  beautiful  as  the  sculptured  hands 
preserved  in  the  works  of  Phidias. 

The  slight  draught  occasioned  by  the  opening  of 
the  door  caused  the  smoke  from  the  incense-burner 
to  be  wafted  toward  the  centre  of  the  room.  Like 
a  blue-gray  phantom  it  coiled  about  the  two  standing 
there  upon  a  red  and  gold  Bedouin  rug,  and  the  heavy 
perfume,  or  the  close  proximity  of  this  singularly 
lovely  woman,  wrought  upon  the  high-strung  sensi- 
bilities of  Deacon  to  such  an  extent  that  he  was  con- 
scious of  a  growing  faintness. 

"Ah!  You  are  not  well!"  exclaimed  Madame  with 
deep  concern.  "It  is  the  perfume  which  that  foolish 
Ah  Li  has  lighted.  He  forgets  that  we  are  in 
England." 

"Not  at  all,"  protested  Deacon  faintly,   and  con- 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  TEMPLE          359 

scious  that  he  was  making  a  fool  of  himself.  "I  think 
I  have  perhaps  been  overdoing  it  rather  of  late.  For- 
give me  if  I  sit  down." 

He  sank  on  the  cushioned  divan,  his  heart  beating 
furiously,  while  Madame  touched  the  little  bell,  where- 
upon one  of  the  servants  entered. 

She  spoke  in  Chinese,  pointing  to  the  incense-burner. 

Ah  Li  bowed  and  removed  the  censer.  As  the  door 
softly  reclosed: 

"You  are  better?"  she  whispered,  sweetly  solicitous, 
and,  seating  herself  beside  Deacon,  she  laid  her  hand 
lightly  upon  his  arm. 

"Quite,"  he  replied  hoarsely;  "please  do  not  worry 
about  me.  I  am  wondering  what  has  become  of 
Annesley." 

"Ah,  the  poor  man!"  exclaimed  Madame,  with  a 
silver  laugh,  and  began  to  busy  herself  with  the  tea- 
cups. "He  remembered,  as  he  was  looking  at  my 
new  Leonardo,  an  appointment  which  he  had  quite 
forgotten." 

"I  can  understand  his  forgetting  anything  under 
the  circumstances." 

Madame  de  Medici  raised  a  tiny  cup  and  bent 
slightly  toward  him.  He  felt  that  he  was  losing  con- 
trol of  himself,  and,  averting  his  eyes,  he  stooped  and 
smelled  the  orchid  in  his  buttonhole.  Then,  accepting 
the  cup,  he  was  about  to  utter  some  light  commonplace 
when  the  faintness  returned  overwhelmingly,  and, 
hurriedly  replacing  the  cup  upon  the  tray,  he  fell  back 
among  the  cushions.  The  stifling  perfume  of  the 
place  seemed  to  be  choking  him. 


360  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

"Ah,  poor  boy!  You  are  really  not  at  all  well. 
How  sorry  I  am!" 

The  sweet  tones  reached  him  as  from  a  great 
distance;  but  as  one  dying  in  the  desert  turns  his  face 
toward  the  distant  oasis,  Deacon  turned  weakly  to  the 
speaker.  She  placed  one  fair  arm  behind  his  head, 
pillowing  him,  and  with  a  peacock  fan  which  had  lain 
amid  the  cushions  fanned  his  face.  The  strange  scene 
became  wholly  unreal  to  him;  he*  thought  himself  some 
dying  barbaric  chief. 

"Rest  there,"  murmured  the  sweet  voice. 

The  great  eyes,  unveiled  now  by  the  black  lashes, 
were  two  twin  lakes  of  fairest  amber.  They  seemed 
to  merge  together,  so  that  he  stood  upon  the  brink  of 
an  unfathomable  amber  pool — which  swallowed  him 
up — which  swallowed  him  up. 

He  awoke  to  an  instantaneous  consciousness  of  the 
fact  that  he  had  been  guilty  of  inexcusably  bad  form. 
He  could  not  account  for  his  faintness,  and  reclining 
there  amid  the  silken  cushions,  with  Madame  de 
Medici  watching  him  anxiously,  he  felt  a  hot  flush 
stealing  over  his  face. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  me!"  he  exclaimed,  and 
sprang  to  his  feet.  "I  feel  quite  well  now." 

She  watched  him,  smiling,  but  did  not  speak.  He 
was  a  "very  young  man"  again,  and  badly  embarrassed. 
He  glanced  at  his  wrist-watch. 

"Gracious  heavens!"  he  cried,  and  noted  that  the 
tea-tray  had  been  removed,  "there  must  be  something 
radically  wrong  with  my  health.  It  is  nearly  seven 
o'clock!" 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  TEMPLE          361 

The  note  of  the  silver  bell  sounded  in  the  ante-room. 

"Can  you  forgive  me?"  he  said. 

But  Madame,  rising  to  her  feet,  leaned  lightly  upon 
his  shoulder,  toying  with  the  petals  of  the  orchid  in 
his  buttonhole. 

"I  think  it  was  the  perfume  which  that  foolish  Ah 
Li  lighted,"  she  whispered,  looking  intently  into  his 
eyes,  "and  it  is  you  who  have  to  forgive  me.  But  you 
will,  I  know!"  The  silver  bell  rang  again.  "When 
you  have  come  to  see  me  again — many,  many  times, 
you  will  grow  to  love  it — because  I  love  it." 

She  touched  the  bell  upon  the  table,  and  Ah  Li 
entered  silently.  When  Madame  de  Medici  held  out 
her  hand  to  him  Deacon  raised  the  white  fingers  to 
his  lips  and  kissed  them  rapturously;  then  he  turned, 
the  Gascon  within  him  uppermost  again,  and  ran  from 
the  room. 

A  purple  curtain  was  drawn  across  the  lobby, 
screening  the  caller  newly  arrived  from  the  one  so 
hurriedly  departing. 


IV 

THE  LIVING  BUDDHA 

IT  WAS  past  midnight  when  Colonel  Deacon  re- 
turned to  the  house.  Rene  was  waiting  for  him, 
pacing  up  and  down  the  big  library.  Their 
relationship  was  curious,  as  subsisting  between  ward 
and  guardian,  for  these  two,  despite  the  disparity  of 
their  ages,  had  few  secrets  from  one  another.  Rene 
burned  to  pour  out  his  story  of  the  wonderful  Madame 
de  Medici,  of  the  secret  house  in  Chinatown  with  its 
deceptively  mean  exterior  and  its  gorgeous  interior, 
to  the  shrewd  and  worldly  elder  man.  That  was  his 
way.  But  Fate  had  an  oddly  bitter  moment  in  store 
for  him. 

"Hallo,  boy!"  cried  the  Colonel,  looking  into  the 
library;  uglad  you're  home.  I  might  not  see  you  in 
the  morning,  and  I  want  to  tell  you  about — er — a  lady 
who  will  be  coming  here  in  the  afternoon." 

The  words  died  upon  Rene's  lips  unspoken,  and  he 
stared  blankly  at  the  Colonel. 

"I  thought  I  knew  all  there  was  to  know  about 
pictures,  antiques,  and  all  that  sort  of  lumber,"  con- 
tinued Colonel  Deacon  in  his  rapid  and  off-hand  man- 
ner. "Thought  there  weren't  many  men  in  London 
could  teach  me  anything;  certainly  never  suspected  a 

362 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  TEMPLE          363 

woman  could.  But  I've  met  one,  boy !  Gad !  What 
a  splendid  creature!  You  know  there  isn't  much  in 
the  world  I  haven't  seen — north,  south,  east  and  west. 
I  know  all  the  advertised  beauties  of  Europe  and 
Asia — stage,  opera,  and  ballet,  and  all  the  rest  of 
them.  But  this  one — Gad!" 

He  dropped  into  an  arm-chair,  clapping  both  his 
hands  upon  his  knees.  Rene  stood  at  the  farther  end 
of  the  library,  in  the  shadow,  watching  him. 

"She's  coming  here  to-morrow,  boy — coming  here. 
Gad!  you  dog!  You'll  fall  in  love  with  her  the 
moment  you  see  her — sure  to,  sure  to!  7  did,  and 
I'm  three  times  your  age !" 

"Who  is  this  lady,  sir?"  asked  Rene,  very  quietly. 

"God  knows,  boy!  Everybody's  mad  to  meet  her, 
but  nobody  knows  who  she  is.  But  wait  till  you  see 
her.  Lady  Dascot  seems  to  be  acquainted  with  her, 
but  you  will  see  when  they  come  to-morrow — see 
for  yourself.  Gad,  boy!  .  .  .  what  did  you 
say?" 

"I  did  not  speak." 

"Thought  you  did.     Have  a  whisky-and-soda  ?" 

"No,  thank  you,  sir — good  night." 

"Good  night,  boy!"  cried  the  Colonel.  "Good 
night.  Don't  forget  to  be  in  to-morrow  afternoon  or 
you'll  miss  meeting  the  loveliest  woman  in  London, 
and  the  most  brilliant." 

"What  is  her  name?" 

"Eh  ?  She  calls  herself  Madame  de  Medici.  She's 
a  mystery,  but  what  a  splendid  creature!" 

Rene  Deacon  walked  slowly  upstairs,  entered  his 


364  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

bedroom,  and  for  fully  an  hour  sat  in  the  darkness, 
thinking — thinking. 

"Am  I  going  mad?"  he  murmured.  "Or  is  this 
witch  driving  all  London  mad?" 

He  strove  to  recover  something  of  the  glamour 
which  had  mastered  him  when  in  the  presence  of 
Madame  de  Medici,  but  failed.  Yet  he  knew  that, 
once  near  her  again,  it  would  all  return.  His  reflec- 
tions were  bitter,  and  when  at  last  wearily  he  undressed 
and  went  to  bed  it  was  to  toss  restlessly  far  into  the 
small  hours  ere  sleep  came  to  soothe  his  troubled 
mind. 

But  his  sleep  was  disturbed:  a  series  of  dreadfully 
realistic  dreams  danced  through  his  brain.  First  he 
seemed  to  be  standing  upon  a  high  mountain  peak  with 
eternal  snows  stretched  all  about  him.  He  looked 
down,  past  the  snow  line,  past  the  fir  woods,  into  the 
depths  of  a  lovely  lake,  far  down  in  the  valley  below. 
It  was  a  lake  of  liquid  amber,  and  as  he  looked  it 
seemed  to  become  two  lakes,  and  they  were  like  two 
great  eyes  looking  up  at  him  and  summoning  him  to 
leap.  He  thought  that  he  leaped,  a  prodigious  leap, 
far  out  into  space;  then  fell — fell — fell.  When  he 
splashed  into  the  amber  deeps  they  became  churned  up 
in  a  milky  foam,  and  this  closed  about  him  with  a 
strangle  grip.  But  it  was  no  longer  foam,  but  the 
clinging  arms  of  Madame  de  Medici ! 

Then  he  stood  upon  a  fragile  bridge  of  bamboo 
spanning  a  raging  torrent.  Right  and  left  of  the 
torrent  below  were  jungles  in  which  moved  tigerish 
shapes.  Upon  the  farther  side  of  the  bridge  Madame 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  TEMPLE          365 

de  Medici,  clad  in  a  single  garment  of  flame-coloured 
silk,  beckoned  to  him.  He  sought  to  cross  the  bridge, 
but  it  collapsed,  and  he  fell  near  the  edge  of  the 
torrent.  Below  were  the  raging  waters,  and  ever 
nearing  him  the  tigerish  shapes,  which  now  Madame 
was  calling  to  as  to  a  pack  of  hounds.  They  were 
about  to  devour  him,  when 

He  was  crouching  upon  a  ledge,  high  above  a  street 
which  seemed  to  be  vaguely  familiar.  He  could  not 
see  very  well,  because  of  a  silk  mask  tied  upon  his 
face,  and  the  eyeholes  of  which  were  badly  cut.  From 
the  ledge  he  stepped  to  another,  perilously.  He 
gained  it,  and  crouching  there,  where  there  was  scarce 
foothold  for  a  cat,  he  managed  fully  to  raise  a  win- 
dow which  already  was  raised  some  six  inches.  Then 
softly  and  silently — for  he  was  bare-footed — he  en- 
tered the  room. 

Someone  slept  in  a  bed  facing  the  window  by  which 
he  had  entered,  and  upon  a  table  at  the  side  of  the 
sleeper  lay  a  purse,  a  bunch  of  keys,  an  electric  torch, 
and  a  Service  revolver.  Gliding  to  the  table  Rene 
took  the  keys  and  the  electric  torch,  unlocked  the  door 
of  the  room,  and  crept  down  a  thickly  carpeted  stair 
to  a  room  below.  The  door  of  this  also  he  opened 
with  one  of  the  keys  in  the  bunch,  and  by  the  light  of 
the  torch  found  his  way  through  a  quantity  of  antique 
furniture  and  piled  up  curiosities  to  a  safe  set  in  the 
farther  wall. 

He  seemed,  in  his  dream,  to  be  familiar  with  the 
lock  combination,  and,  selecting  the  correct  key  from 
the  bunch,  he  soon  had  the  safe  open.  The  shelves 


366  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

within  were  laden  principally  with  antique  jewellery, 
statuettes,  medals,  scarabs;  and  a  number  of  little 
leather-covered  boxes  were  there  also.  One  of  these 
he  abstracted,  relocked  the  safe,  and  stepped  out  of 
the  room,  locking  the  door  behind  him.  Up  the  stairs 
he  mounted  to  the  bedroom  wherein  he  had  left  the 
sleeper.  Having  entered,  he  locked  the  door  from 
within,  placed  the  keys  and  the  torch  upon  the  table, 
and  crept  out  again  upon  the  dizzy  ledge. 

Poised  there,  high  above  the  thoroughfare  below, 
a  great  nausea  attacked  him.  Glancing  to  the  right, 
in  the  direction  of  the  window  through  which  he  had 
come,  he  perceived  Madame  de  Medici  leaning  out 
and  beckoning  to  him.  Her  arm  gleamed  whitely  in 
the  faint  light.  A  new  courage  came  to  him.  He 
succeeded,  crouched  there  upon  the  narrow  ledge,  in 
relowering  the  window,  and  leaving  it  in  the  state  in 
which  he  had  found  it,  he  stood  up  and  essayed  that 
sickly  stride  to  the  adjoining  ledge.  He  accom- 
plished it,  knelt,  and  crept  back  into  the  room  from 
which  he  had  started.  .  .  . 

The  head  of  an  ivory  image  of  Buddha  loomed  up 
out  of  the  utter  darkness,  growing  and  growing  until 
it  seemed  like  a  great  mountain.  He  could  not  believe 
that  there  was  so  much  ivory  in  the  world,  and  he  felt 
it  with  his  fingers,  wonderingly.  As  he  did  so  it  began 
to  shrink,  and  shrink,  and  shrink,  and  shrink,  until  it 
was  no  larger  that  a  seated  human  figure.  Then  be- 
neath his  trembling  hands  it  became  animate;  it  moved, 
extended  ivory  arms,  and  wrapped  them  about  his 
neck.  Its  lips  became  carmine — perfumed;  they  bent 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  TEMPLE          367 

to  him     .     .     .     and  he  was  looking  into  the  bewitch- 
ing face  of  Madame  de  Medici ! 

He  awoke,  gasping  for  air  and  bathed  in  cold  per- 
spiration. The  dawn  was  just  breaking  over  London 
and  stealing  grayly  from  object  to  object  in  his  bed- 
room. 


THE  IVORY  GOD 

THE  great  car,  with  its  fittings  of  gold  and 
ivory,  drew  up  at  the  door  of  Colonel  Deacon's 
house.     The   interior   was   ablaze   with   tiger 
lilies,  and  out  from  their  midst  stepped  the  fairest  of 
them  all — Madame  de  Medici,  and  swept  queenly  up 
the  steps  upon  the  arm  of  the  cavalierly  soldier. 

All  connoisseurs  esteemed  it  a  privilege  to  view  the 
Deacon  collection,  and  this  afternoon  there  was  a 
goodly  gathering.  Chairs  and  little  white  tables  were 
dotted  about  the  lawn  in  shady  spots,  and  the  majority 
of  the  company  were  already  assembled;  but  when,  in 
a  wonderful  golden  robe,  Madame  de  Medici  glided 
across  the  lawn,  the  babel  ceased  abruptly  as  if  by 
magic.  She  pulled  off  one  glove  and  began  twirling  a 
great  emerald  between  her  slim  fingers.  It  was  sus- 
pended from  a  thin  gold  chain.  Presently,  descrying 
Annesley  seated  at  a  table  with  Lady  Dascot,  she 
raised  the  jewel  languidly  and  peered  through  it  at 
the  two. 

"Why!"  exclaimed  Rene  Deacon,  who  stood  close 
beside  her,  "that  was  a  trick  of  Nero's!" 
Madame  laughed  musically. 

368 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  TEMPLE          369 

"One  might  take  a  worse  model,"  she  said  softly; 
"at  least  he  enjoyed  life." 

Colonel  Deacon,  who  listened  to  her  every  word 
as  to  the  utterance  of  a  Cumaean  oracle,  laughed  with 
extraordinary  approbation. 

There  was  scarce  a  woman  present  who  regarded 
Madame  with  a  friendly  eye,  nor  a  man  who  did  not 
aspire  to  become  her  devoted  slave.  She  brought  an 
atmosphere  of  unreality  with  her,  dominating  old  and 
young  alike  by  virtue  of  her  splendid  pagan  beauty. 
The  lawn,  with  its  very  modern  appointments,  became 
as  some  garden  of  the  Golden  House,  a  pleasure 
ground  of  an  emperor. 

But  later,  when  the  company  entered  the  house,  and 
Colonel  Deacon  sought  to  monopolize  the  society  of 
Madame,  an  unhealthy  spirit  of  jealousy  arose  be- 
tween Rene  and  his  guardian.  It  was  strange,  gro- 
tesque, horrible  almost.  Annesley  watched  from  afar, 
and  there  was  something  very  like  anger  in  his  glance. 

"And  this,"  said  the  Colonel  presently,  taking  up  an 
exquisitely  carved  ivory  Buddha,  "has  a  strange  his- 
tory. In  some  way  a  legend  has  grown  up  around  it 
— it  is  of  very  great  age — to  the  effect  that  it  must 
always  cause  its  owner  to  lose  his  most  cherished 
possession." 

"I  wonder,"  said  the  silvern  voice,  "that  you,  who 
possess  so  many  beautiful  things,  should  consent  to 
have  so  ill-omened  a  curiosity  in  your  house." 

"I  do  not  fear  the  evil  charm  of  this  little  ivory 
image,"  said  Colonel  Deacon,  "although  its  history 
goes  far  to  bear  out  the  truth  of  the  legend.  Its  last 


370  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

possessor  lost  his  most  cherished  possession  a  month 
after  the  Buddha  came  into  his  hands.  He  fell,  down 
his  own  stairs — and  lost  his  life!" 

Madame  de  Medici  languidly  surveyed  the  figure 
through  the  upraised  emerald. 

"Really!"  she  murmured.  "And  the  one  from 
whom  he  procured  it?" 

"A  Hindu  usurer  of  Simla,"  replied  the  Colonel. 
"His  daughter  stole  it  from  her  father  together  with 
many  other  things,  and  took  them  to  her  lover,  with 
whom  she  fled!" 

Madame  de  Medici  seemed  to  be  slightly  interested. 

"I  should  love  to  possess  so  weird  a  thing,"  she 
said  softly. 

"It  is  yours!"  exclaimed  the  Colonel,  and  placed  it 
in  her  hands. 

"Oh,  but  really,"  she  protested. 

"But  really  I  insist — in  order  that  you  may  not 
forget  your  first  visit  to  my  house!" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"How  very  kind  you  are,  Colonel  Deacon,"  she 
said,  "to  a  rival  collector!" 

"Now  that  the  menace  is  removed,"  said  Colonel 
Deacon  with  laboured  humour,  "I  will  show  you  my 
most  treasured  possession." 

"So!     I  am  greatly  interested." 

"Not  even  this  rascal  Rene,"  said  the  Colonel, 
stopping  before  a  safe  set  in  the  wall,  "has  seen  what 
I  am  about  to  show  you !" 

Rene  started  slightly  and  watched  with  intense  in- 
terest the  unlocking  of  the  safe. 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  TEMPLE  371 

"If  I  am  not  superstitious  about  the  ivory  Buddha," 
continued  the  Colonel,  "I  must  plead  guilty  in  the  case 
of  the  Key  of  the  Temple  of  Heaven!" 

"The  Key  of  the  Temple  of  Heaven!"  murmured 
a  lady  standing  immediately  behind  Madame  de 
Medici.  "And  what  is  the  Key  of  the  Temple  of 
Heaven?" 

The  Colonel,  having  unlocked  the  safe,  straight- 
ened himself,  and  while  everyone  was  waiting  to  see 
what  he  had  to  show,  began  to  speak  again  pompously : 

"The  Temple  of  Heaven  stands  in  the  outer  or 
Chinese  City  of  Pekin,  and  is  fabulously  wealthy. 
No  European,  I  can  swear,  had  ever  entered  its  secret 
chambers  until  last  year.  One  of  its  most  famous 
treasures  was  this  Key.  It  was  used  only  to  open  the 
special  entrance  reserved  for  the  Emperor  when  he 
came  to  worship  after  his  succession  to  the  throne — 
that  was,  of  course,  before  China  became  a  Republic. 
The  Key  is  studded  almost  all  over  with  precious 
stones.  Last  year  a  certain  naval  man — I'll  not 
mention  his  name — discovered  the  secret  of  its  hiding- 
place.  How  he  came  by  that  knowledge  does  not 
matter  at  present.  One  very  dark  night  he  crept  up 
to  the  temple.  He  found  the  Keeper  of  the  Key — a 
Buddhist  priest — to  be  sleeping,  and  he  succeeded, 
therefore,  in  gaining  access  and  becoming  possessed 
of  the  Key." 

A  chorus  of  excited  exclamations  greeted  this 
dramatic  point  of  the  story. 

"The  object  of  this  outrage,"  continued  the  Colonel, 
"for  an  outrage  I  cannot  deny  it  to  have  been,  was 


372  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

not  a  romantic  one.  The  poor  chap  wanted  money, 
and  he  thought  he  could  sell  the  Key  to  one  of  the 
native  jewellers.  But  he  was  mistaken.  He  got  back 
safely,  and  secretly  offered  it  in  various  directions. 
No  one  would  touch  the  thing;  moreover,  although  of 
great  value,  the  stones  were  very  far  from  flawless, 
and  not  really  worth  the  risks  which  he  had  run  to 
secure  them.  Don't  misunderstand  me ;  the  Key  would 
fetch  a  big  sum,  but  not  a  fortune." 

uYes?"  said  Madame  de  Medici,  smiling,  for  the 
Colonel  paused. 

"He  packed  it  up  and  addressed  it  to  me,  together 
with  a  letter.  The  price  that  he  asked  was  quite  a 
moderate  one,  and  when  the  Key  arrived  in  England 
I  dispatched  a  check  immediately.  It  never  reached 
him." 

"Why?"  cried  many  whom  this  strange  story  had 
profoundly  interested. 

"He  was  found  dead  at  the  back  of  the  native 
cantonments,  with  a  knife  in  his  heart!" 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Lady  Dascot.  "How  positively 
ghastly!  I  don't  think  I  want  to  see  the  dreadful 
thing!" 

"Really!"  murmured  Madame  de  Medici,  turning 
languidly  to  the  speaker.  "/  do." 

The  Colonel  stooped  and  reached  into  the  safe. 
Then  he  began  to  take  out  object  after  object,  box 
after  box.  Finally,  he  straightened  himself  again,  and 
all  saw  that  his  face  was  oddly  blanched. 

"It's  gone!"  he  whispered  hoarsely.  "The  Key 
of  the  Temple  of  Heaven  has  been  stolen !" 


VI 


MADAME    SMILES 

K^NE  entered  his  bedroom,  locked  the  door,  and 
seated  himself  on  the  bed ;  then  he  lowered  his 
head  into  his  hands  and  clutched  at  his  hair 
distractedly.  Since,  on  his  uncle's  own  showing,  no 
one  knew  that  the  Key  of  the  Temple  of  Heaven  had 
been  in  the  safe,  since,  excepting  himself  (Rene)  and 
the  Colonel,  no  one  else  knew  the  lock  combination, 
how  the  Key  had  been  stolen  was  a  mystery  which  de- 
fied conjecture.  No  one  but  the  Colonel  had  ap- 
proached within  several  yards  of  the  safe  at  the  time 
it  was  opened;  so  that  clearly  the  theft  had  been  com- 
mitted prior  to  that  time. 

Now  Rene  sought  to  recall  the  details  of  a  strange 
dream  which  he  had  dreamed  immediately  before 
awakening  on  the  previous  night;  but  he  sought 
in  vain.  His  memory  could  supply  only  blurred 
images.  There  had  been  a  safe  in  his  dream,  and  he 
— was  it  he  or  another? — had  unlocked  it.  Also  there 
had  been  an  enormous  ivory  Buddha.  .  .  .  Yet, 
stay!  it  had  not  been  enormous;  it  had  been  .  .  . 

He  groaned  at  his  own  impotency  to  recall  the  cir- 
cumstances of  that  mysterious,  perhaps  prophetic 
dream;  then  in  despair  he  gave  it  up,  and  stooping 

373 


374  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

to  a  little  secretaire,  unlocked  it  with  the  idea  of 
sending  a  note  round  to  Annesley's  chambers.  As  he 
did  so  he  uttered  a  loud  cry. 

Lying  in  one  of  the  pigeon-holes  was  a  long  piece 
of  black  silk,  apparently  torn  from  the  lining  of  an 
opera  hat.  In  it  two  holes  were  cut  as  if  it  were 
intended  to  be  used  as  a  mask.  Beside  it  lay  a  little 
leather-covered  box.  He  snatched  it  out  and  opened 
it.  It  was  empty! 

"Am  I  going  mad?"  he  groaned.     "Or " 

"You  are  wanted  on  the  'phone,  sir." 

It  was  the  butler  who  had  interrupted  him.  Rene 
descended  to  the  telephone,  dazedly,  but,  recognizing 
the  voice  of  Annesley,  roused  himself. 

"I'm  leaving  town  to-night,  Deacon,"  said  Annesley, 
"for — well,  many  reasons.  But  before  I  go  I  must 
give  you  a  warning,  though  I  rely  on  you  never  to 
mention  my  name  in  the  matter.  Avoid  the  woman 
who  calls  herself  Madame  de  Medici ;  she'll  break  you. 
She's  an  adventuress,  and  has  a  dangerous  acquaintance 
with  Eastern  cults,  and  ...  I  can't  explain 
properly.  .  .  ." 

"Annesley!  the  Key!" 

"It's  the  theft  of  the  Key  that  has  prompted  me  to 
speak,  Deacon.  Madame  has  some  sort  of  power — 
hypnotic  power.  She  employed  it  on  me  once,  to  my 
cost!  Paul  Harley,  of  Chancery  Lane,  can  tell  you 
more  about  her.  The  house  she's  living  in  temporarily 
used  to  belong  to  a  notorious  Eurasian,  Zani  Chada. 
To  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  I  daren't  thwart  her 
openly;  but  I  felt  it  up  to  me  to  tell  you  that  she 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  TEMPLE  375 

possesses  the  secret  of  post-hypnotic  suggestion.  I 
may  be  wrong,  but  I  think  you  stole  that  Key!'* 

"It" 

"She  hypnotized  you  at  some  time,  and,  by  means 
of  this  uncanny  power  of  hers,  ordered  you  to  steal 
the  Key  of  the  Temple  of  Heaven  in  such  and  such  a 
fashion  at  a  certain  hour  in  the  night  .  .  ." 

"I  had  a  strange  seizure  while  I  was  at  her 
house.  .  .  ." 

"Exactly!  During  that  time  you  were  receiving 
your  hypnotic  orders.  You  would  remember  nothing 
of  them  until  the  time  to  execute  them — which  would 
probably  be  during  sleep.  In  a  state  of  artificial  som- 
nambulism, and  under  the  direction  of  M adame's  will, 
you  became  a  burglar!'* 

As  Madame  de  Medici's  car  drove  off  from  the 
house  of  Colonel  Deacon,  and  Madame  seated  herself 
in  the  cushioned  corner,  up  from  amid  the  furs  upon 
the  floor,  where,  dog-like,  he  had  lain  concealed,  rose 
the  little  yellow  man  from  the  Temple  of  Heaven. 
He  extended  eager  hands  toward  her,  kneeling  there, 
and  spoke : 

"Quick !  quick !"  he  breathed.  "You  have  it?  The 
Key  of  the  Temple." 

Madame  held  in  her  hand  an  ivory  Buddha.  In- 
verting it  she  unscrewed  the  pedestal,  and  out  from 
the  hollow  inside  the  image  dropped  a  gleaming 
Key. 

"Ah!"  breathed  the  yellow  man,  and  would  have 
clutched  it;  but  Madame  disdainfully  raised  her  right 


376  TALES  OF  CHINATOWN 

hand  which  held  the  treasure,  and  with  her  left  hand 
thrust  down  the  clutching  yellow  fingers. 

She  dropped  the  Key  between  her  white  skin  and 
the  bodice  of  her  gown,  tossing  the  ivory  figure  con- 
temptuously amid  the  fur. 

"Ah!"  repeated  the  yellow  man  in  a  different  tone, 
and  his  eyes  gleamed  with  the  flame  of  fanaticism. 
He  slowly  uprose,  a  sinister  figure,  and  with  distended 
fingers  prepared  to  seize  Madame  by  the  throat.  His 
eyes  were  bloodshot,  his  nostrils  were  dilated,  and  his 
teeth  were  exposed  like  the  fangs  of  a  wolf. 

But  she  pulled  off  her  glove  and  stretched  out  her 
bare  white  hand  to  him  as  a  queen  to  a  subject;  she 
raised  the  long  curved  lashes,  and  the  great  amber 
eyes  looked  into  the  angry  bloodshot  eyes. 

The  little  yellow  man  began  to  breathe  more  and 
more  rapidly;  soon  he  was  panting  like  one  in  a  fight 
to  the  death  who  is  all  but  conquered.  At  last  he 
dropped  on  his  knees  amid  the  fur  .  .  .  and  the 
curling  lashes  were  lowered  again  over  the  blazing 
amber  eyes  that  had  conquered. 

Madame  de  Medici  lowered  her  beautiful  white 
hand,  and  the  little  yellow  man  seized  it  in  both  his 
own  and  showered  rapturous  kisses  upon  it. 

Madame  smiled  slightly. 

"Poor  little  yellow  man!"  she  murmured  in  sibilant 
Chinese,  "you  shall  never  return  to  the  Temple  of 
Heaven!" 

THE  END 


RETURN 


CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

Main  Library  •  198  Main  Stacks 


LOAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS. 

Renewls  and  Recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  the  due  date. 

Books  may  be  Renewed  by  calling  642-3405. 


DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 

APR  1  2  1999 

JUN  0  *TI  200f 

u  IM  1  ft  Z^QG 

JUrl  A  v 

FORM  NO.  DD6 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
BERKELEY,  CA  94720-6000 


YB  40100 


GENERAL  LIBRARY -U.C.  BERKELEY 


BOOOa?V3S 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


